


Starbound

by rashiisa (chossensa)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Civil War Fix-It, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description of Injuries, Introspection, Peter Parker Joins the Avengers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Tony Stark, Stargazing, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, and also, kind of, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24256894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chossensa/pseuds/rashiisa
Summary: After Peter’s unintended proof of worth in the brawl against Vulture Guy, Tony begins to take him under his wing with the excuse that he’s still too young and in need of a mentor. But Peter is more kind and loving than Tony initially thought, and while Peter does need him, Tony fears it might also be the other way around.In which Tony learns to be loved and to love.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 104
Collections: Irondad Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out that a scene you very badly wanted to see in End**me™ started morphing into a long-ass fic and you signed up for a Big Bang so you would feel compelled to finish the wole thing?? Oh, who could have known.
> 
> Yes, I needed to see a very certain scene I'll tell you about later and wrote it, causing my brain to get sad and come up with a lot more scenes called "Scenes I Wanted To See In Which Tony And Peter Spend Time Together But I Didn't Get" and here we are.
> 
> Also! This is supposedly a Civil War Fix-it; supposedly, because I just pretended everyone got along and lived together at the compound. How? I don't know, but I don't care either. They deserve to be happy together and the MCU is not taking that away from me.
> 
> The art appearing in this fic belongs to [Dusk-blue](https://duskblue-art.tumblr.com/) and [Aq2003](https://aq2003.tumblr.com).

The place is immense.

No concerns bounce in his mind, no hyperventilation withers his lungs. There’s no frustration twisting his stomach or anguish heaving in his heart. It’s only him and the blessing, _blessing_ void behind his eyes, giving him the silence that stabilises his pulse and the solitude that locks any other worry that is not him.

Breathing keenly, dreaming awake, meditating upon nothing.

Darkness may seem frightening, but it’s harmless once he respires through it. He creates a space where his body unwinds for the night—the pain roosted in his head vanishes, the tension accumulated in his muscles melts away. The machinery switches off, and every fiber of his being is finally at ease.

Tony’s so pleased with himself and with his surroundings, so tranquil and lighthearted that he grins unconsciously. _So resting feels this good, huh?_

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

He’s in a dark room with no walls and no door—just soothing blackness, an emptiness that far from being distressing, what it does is relax him even more, because there’s no one nor nothing to worry about.

Nothing else around him except for an endless, starry floor.

It’s an infinite lake. Sapphire sprinkled with diamond, silvery and bright, sparkling and joining in constellations that take different shapes—a vast, imperturbable space, and he’s here, standing, eyes half-lidded, light body, relaxed breathing.

The water is still as well, smooth and reflective like a mirror, black like an utter night sprayed with gleaming stars. A breeze sweeps through in kind whispers and pushes waves on the surface. He looks down, and his reflection shines like a celestial body more. Skin rosy and fair, eyes sheeny like honey, hair glowing almost chocolate but tinged with bronze.

A stone plunks into the lake, and the plop expreads in a gentle big bang. His reflection smudges in an amalgam of colours, wobbles around and around, rippling in bright-silver circles one inside the other.

When the surface soothes, the skywater of stars is still there, but not so his reflection. He’s like a ghost in front of a mirror, soulless-like, and the lake peppered with countless stars doesn’t recognise him.

 _Who are you?_ , the constellations seem to murmur, and he’s about to tread on them when a pick of a colour that definitely shouldn’t be there catches his attention. His gaze sails upon the surface until he runs into bright, too-out-of-place walnut hair.

He lifts his head, and his eyes widen. His breathing cuts off, catches in his throat as though it doesn’t work anymore—the familiar silhouette of Peter stands in front of him, and the scene is breathtaking.

Peter’s hair brightens copper against the intensity of the indigo sky, healthy and shiny like it’s ever been. His tender eyes glint like they keep nebulas inside, and mild orange paints his cheeks in a brush-stroke of candour. All of him beams like light comes from within. He’s dazzling.

Peter’s out of place but the stars enfold him like the Sun itself, orbiting around him in a halo of twinkling constellations.

It’s the most astonishing view Tony’s ever seen.

Then Peter beams, eyes wrinkling with the delicate rise of his cheeks, and his voice is affectionate and sweet when he asks,

“Do you like stars?”

Breeze waves placidly, rustling Peter’s hair in mellow kisses, and it smells like recent rain in a forest, like fresh dew in the morning, like the chilly breeze of a summer night. It’s fresh, and revitalising, and Tony inhales it deeply, screwing his eyes shut.

The light coming from Peter keeps casting at his eyelids, though, fluttering in the darkness like fireflies. His chest rises and falls, and wind flows from time to time, caressing his cheeks and nose and ears, making him totally conscious of himself but also of the peace that reigns in this room with no walls and no door but with a starry floor where Peter shines like the Sun, and there’s nothing left nor amiss. Peter is an element more of that serenity Tony seeks, because he’s glad Peter’s there, lively and smiley and shimmering as though he belongs there, among glowing stars and dark blue sky.

“Do you?” Peter repeats in the distance, with the same fond tone, and when Tony opens his eyes to reply, Peter’s not there.

He looks around, but there’s no trace of him—just black above, and silver-sprinkled blue down, as far as his eyes can see.

Frowning slightly in his confusion, Tony stares concerned at the space where Peter stood nothing ago.

No, he doesn’t like stars.

They remind him of his own weakness, of the opportunities he’s missed throughout his life and of those people who are no longer with him.

He doesn’t like them by any means.

* * *

Tony opens his arms broadly in the middle of the lab, like he’s presenting his best masterpiece to the entire world.

“You know the saying: make yourself at home.”

There’s light in Peter’s face as he enters the room. Amazedly, he checks on the artifacts scattered on the tables, on the floor, on the walls, even some hanging from the roof. His eyes open so wide and excited they may get dry from not blinking.

“Whoa…” he ends up breathing out, the spark of wonder dimming a bit for one of bewilderment as he walks on, opening and closing his mouth without getting to say anything.

“You’ll catch a fly in that mouth,” Tony smiles, folding his arms over his chest.

“It’s—It’s just…” Peter flusters. “I don’t even know what to say, it’s… it’s better than I thought.”

Sticking his hands behind his back, Peter leans over the workbench, maintaining a safe distance between his body and the furniture to avoid any incident.

“This is not a museum, kiddo,” Tony smirks, leaning his hip against the desk. “You can touch if you want.”

“No, no, I—I can’t….” he stammers, smile blossoming but trembling from the nerves. “What if I break something? It’s—it’s so _awesome_ , oh my god…”

Grin still traced on his mouth, Tony rolls his eyes.

It’s a little bit weird, in all honesty. This lab is a space of comfort he doesn’t share with anyone else, except for Bruce - before he left - and occasionally Pepper, but the list ends there. Having Peter hovering around makes him uneasy somehow, no— _self-conscious_. It’s like showing the secret base where he comes to cry, where he creates and re-creates but also where he fails. And Tony can’t get out of his head what Pepper has alluded to a few hours ago, that showing this place to Peter is like he’s slowly opening up.

Or something like that.

He’d rather not brood over it.

* * *

“You ready, kid?” Tony’s voice pushes through the heavy tenseness oozing out of Peter like alarm pheromones.

Peter’s fingers tense around the sweatband on his wrist. He turns to him after looking at the exit door uneasily.

It’s not as if Tony is forcing him; what’s more, it was Peter who asked him to teach him and the first one who woke up and went to the combat room. But now it seems he’s regretting every decision of his life.

Taking a shaky breath in through his nose, he nods and clears his throat. “I guess so,” he answers warily, writhing his hand and looking everywhere but Tony.

Tony snorts. “Relax, it’s just sparring.”

“It’s... not the sparring itself what scares me,” Peter says, rubbing his neck.

Tony’s eyelashes flutter a second, his brain analysing the possible conclusion he has come to. “Are you afraid of _me_? Peter, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“No, no.” Peter shakes his hands, finally looking at him. “I’m... worried _I_ may hurt _you_.”

Tony deadpans. His mouth hangs open, and the moment Peter smiles awkwardly seeking a reaction, Tony closes his eyes and brings a hand to his face ro rub his temples.

“I’m strong, Mr. Stark, really!” Peter insists. “Like, sometimes I’m _too_ strong. What if I lose control or something?”

Tony lets out an incredulous scoff. “That’s not gonna happen.” He rubs his face again before dropping his arms. “You’re too good for that.”

When he looks back at Peter, he’s biting his lip and wondering if that’s a good idea after all, which is ridiculous because Tony knows perfectly well how to defend himself and besides, Peter would never hurt him. Not as much as he thinks.

Tony exhales, and he gets into position by slightly shrinking his body and raising his arms in front of his face. “C’mon, you begin.”

Finally, Peter drops his shoulders, sighs, and gets into position too.

He throws the first punch. Tony dodges it, and he attacks back so fast Peter has to back off, eyes wide and shocked. After that, Peter begins to attack, and although they come one after another, Peter’s punches are sloppy, slow and doubtful, like he’s holding back and afraid of actually hurting Tony.

If he weren’t busy dodging Peter’s weak punches, Tony would roll his eyes. Sometimes Peter doesn’t take into account that Tony has been doing this for years, and that if he’s still alive, it’s for a reason. Sure, many people have helped him throughout his life, but he has had to get out of quite tricky situations on his own, and Peter doesn’t seem to acknowledge it.

So without more consideration, Tony quickly throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, grabs his arm and tosses him upside down straight to the floor. Peter lands with a grunt, arching his back to ease the pain across his spine - Tony bends over him and cocks an eyebrow.

“Who’s gonna hurt _who_?” he scoffs.

Peter stares at him for a second, then snorts and closes his eyes. “Right,” he pants, and when he opens his eyes, he has Tony’s hand over him.

“Again?” Tony asks, and only a heartbeat passes until Peter smiles again and takes his hand.

* * *

Tony could come up with an excuse, if he wanted to.

It’s not like he cannot do it - he was _born_ making excuses. If the situation looks bad and stacked against him, he doesn’t run away, far from it. Not run away, but _procrastinate_. Some international authorities bug the Avengers with the events in New York? He certainly will deal with it, but not now. Eventually. The Secretary of Defense is charging at him and disgracing his prestige? His old pal Rhodey will gladly shut them up until Tony can think of a way to tackle the root of the problem. Even if it’s about some financial issue, Tony entrusts Pepper with it.

Now, the only problem here is that it concerns Pepper herself. And it also concerns Peter.

Curse the minute he realised and mentioned Pepper that, although it’s been more than half a year since he met the kid, she hasn’t had a chance yet to meet him - needless to say she immediately delayed her appointments on Saturday morning for having lunch with Peter as soon as he showed up at the compound for the weekend.

Curse the minute, because he can’t run away from this—can’t _procrastinate_ , and the unrest comes at his throat, quellingly clawing around his neck; what if Pepper thinks Peter’s annoying, what if Peter thinks Pepper’s a perfectionist. It’s absurd - this is about Pepper and Peter, both kind and charmingly polite, it’s almost impossible for any of them to get upset or disillusioned just with a first impression. It’s not in their nature.

 _It’s not in their nature_ , Tony insists to himself right before Peter closes the front door, turns around, still with the travel bag hanging on his shoulder, and sees Pepper right next to Tony.

And, without missing a beat, Peter’s face brightens.

“Oh! Um, hello!” He hurries to take off his bag and goes to them, holding his hand out to Pepper.

“Hi, Peter,” she beams in turn, taking his hand. “We finally meet.”

“Yeah, nice to meet you, Ms. Potts.”

“Please, call me Pepper.” Peter’s eyes can’t shine more. “I’ve heard so much about you. Every day,” she adds, and Tony blinks out of his trance. From the corner of his eyes, Tony can see her cheekiest smile.

“Really?” Peter squints at Tony, although there’s a tiny smile dancing at the edge of his mouth.

Tony scoffs. “Not _every day_ ,” he mutters, his voice not as firm as he’d wanted to.

Pepper sighs wily. “I was getting a coffee,” she turns his attention to Peter. “Do you mind joining me?”

“Of course! I mean—yes!” Peter says without bothering to hide his enthusiasm. “That would be great!”

Surrounding Peter affectionately with one arm, Pepper leads him to the kitchen but turns her head towards Tony when she notices he’s following them.

“No, not you,” she says, dry. “I want to talk to Peter alone.”

Tony’s heart swells. Something’s wrong. Is the kid in trouble, perchance? Is _he_ in trouble? Why, exactly? Of all the reasons for her to be mad, which one has she chosen? Is she going to persuade Peter to leave such a dangerous life and flee without looking back?

Pepper quirks an eyebrow. No, she doesn’t look mad - there’s something in her eyes Tony knows very well, and it’s not anger at all.

It’s fun, more likely. And Tony breathes again.

He blinks, overly offended. “Pardon me? Are—Are you two ganging up on me now?”

“I’m taking him just for a little while, don’t be dramatic,” she says, while Peter throws a glance at him over his shoulder and shrugs, as if he couldn’t gainsay her.

Pepper winks at him before they start walking away. “How are things at school, Peter?”

“Pretty great, thanks,” Peter smiles, and their voices fade as they walk away.

The early daylight reflected on the omnium walls limns their contours with silver, like clouds in front of the sun.

In the middle of the foyer, Tony takes in the sight of them held onto each other; he takes in Pepper’s rouge lips curling up in a bright smile that accentuates the lines around her eyes, making her even more beautiful; takes in the pure admiration in Peter’s face and his fingers covering sheepishly his mouth, and it on the whole pulls his heart into his mouth in an emotion Tony doesn’t have a rational concept for.

As distress assuages, his chest brims instead with something that borders on the adoring - two of his dearest people in the universe embraced together, the very view of it brings energy, waves, _tides_ , brings a stone dunk in an infinite lake, stream eddying and crescendoing until his chest rises aback, air filling his lungs and smoothing the waters.

Pepper and Peter smile, and Tony breathes.

* * *

If no one else notices, Tony forgets to have dinner. This happens a lot, in fact, when he’s working on something important that demands to be done as soon as possible, even down to losing track of time or forgetting even to sleep.

Then he doesn’t find it odd that Peter’s not eaten today, since he’s got only a couple hours to do his homework and study before going out on patrol.

But what does strike him is that the kid hasn’t even appeared in the kitchen for dinner; he _always_ returns hungry from the patrol. He’s not in his room either, according to F.R.I.D.A.Y.—he’s sparring in the combat room on his own, lights shut off.

Dressed in black sweatpants and tee, Peter fights the training android so zealously he doesn’t even notice Tony’s there. His movements never falter despite his chest heaving for air, the restless rhythm of his opponent and the lack of light. It’s not as dark, though, once Tony’s eyes adjust. The artificial lights from the lampposts outside pour through the floor-to-ceiling windows rays of pearling white, turning the usual white and gray palette into a blend of muted greyish blue, and Tony has to squint to guess Peter’s frown, his teeth biting his lip too harshly. But it’s not until Peter skids and the light touches him, that Tony sees clearly his sweat-sheened forehead, his cheeks flaming hot and his skin pallid. It might be the dull atmosphere, but even for Peter it’s _too_ pale, almost ghostly-like, like he’s sending to his brain too much endorphins and not enough oxygen.

He’s been moving at that pace longer than he should, pushing his body to such an extent his breathing has gone violent and scratchy.

Something’s obviously wrong with him.

“Hey, Spidey,” he speaks up, and Peter squints quickly at him before keeping moving. “It’s dinnertime. You’re not gonna eat anything?”

“’m busy,” he mutters, _pants_ , more like, voice coming a few tones lower.

“You said that this morning,” Tony points out, and cautiously gets closer.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, hurtling to jab the android, and his tone sounds final.

Tony sighs. “Peter, you need to eat. You’ve spent the entire day studying and fighting.” Peter halts, as well as the android. His glazed eyes focus on a certain point in the emptiness, and with the glare on his brow and the rough heaving of his ribcage, he looks _peeved_. “What is it?” Tony asks daintily. “Is it something I can help with?”

The kid finally closes his eyes, swallows, and exhales. “Not really… And I can’t tell you, either. Sorry…”

“Is it bad?”

“No... not at all...” he snorts between pants, although Tony can hear a tinge of bitterness.

Tony’s not great at this. He’s pathetic, actually, when it comes to comforting someone else. He can barely comfort himself, for fuck’s sake, and he doesn’t yet know exactly what may uplift Peter.

Tony does know what does uplift him, though.

“Okay, then,” he chimes, rubbing his hands. “Get a shower and change into something comfy. I’ll be right back.” Amused with Peter’s baffled look, he turns around and walks away in long strides. “Wait for me in your room!” And he leaves without giving Peter the option to argue.

He doesn’t have a single clue what - or who - may have led Peter to wear himself out in such a severe manner, even less why would he do precisely that instead of talking to someone, but he couldn’t find an accurate answer however much he wants to—in this complex realm everyone has their own way to handle disappointment and the light yet dangerous pain that comes with it, from drinking a lukewarm cup of tea until drowning in ooze, doing yoga or getting away from a robbery, sniffing the mild scent of a homemade pie or snorting coke at a nightclub.

The spectrum expands as Tony thinks more and more about it, about the ridiculously simple means of getting better and about the unwittingly harmful ones.

Several years ago, when his life was beyond control more than it is now, he staunchly believed that the more unsafe the mechanisms, the more effective the results. The rest of the recovery process is history.

Now he sees more clearly, to his outside eye, but he still respects that. He’s not one to talk, after all. If he’s learned anything from the mistakes of the past, it’s that putting himself in the shoes of others has made him a way better man and has widened his mind. Thus he will keep his mouth shut and will try to help as smoothly as he can, also respecting that Peter has some little secrets in his life he cannot - or doesn’t want to - share with him. Peter’s pretty sad already without Tony sticking his nose in, and the last thing Tony pretends is to be intrusive or unintentionally heartless.

So he comes back to the compound laden with one of his easiest, best coping mechanisms besides building things: junk food.

He’s just trying.

Peter’s mouth drops open when Tony appears in his room, pizza boxes on one palm, a bunch of plastic and paper bags dangling by his arms and the hot smell of fast food wafting off him like a walking stall.

“What—what is this all about?” Peter asks at a lack of explanations.

Tony shrugs, but since he can barely move, his shoulders just tense. “I know you love all this junk,” he answers, sounding more confident than he actually is.

“But—why _so much_?”

“Well, I know you like _junk_ , but I didn’t know _what kind_. So I brought a bit of everything, you know, two pizzas from Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, some bagels from Dunkin’ Donuts, some burritos… Doritos and Cheetos... oh, and I didn’t know either what type of chocolate you prefer, so I bought one of each.” He whips his head up at the lack of words, and Peter’s face is unreadable, his attention locked to the carafe of coke at Tony’s feet. Tony frowns. “What. You don’t like any of this? I know I shouldn’t give you this much, but I don’t think you’re in the mood for vegetable stew with that comedown you got, do you?”

“No, I don’t, but...” He blinks, that dazed expression still creasing his frown. A few beats passes, in which Tony thinks he’s crossed some line, until Peter shakes his head and sighs. “I’m… I’m actually hungry,” he gives up, instantly relaxing his entire body with half a smile.

There he is.

“That’s what I thought,” Tony says, and pushes the door back with the heel of his shoe so it’s ajar.

“But I don’t think I can eat all this alone,” Peter admits, grinning freely now.

Tony’s genuinely glad to hear. “Then you’ll have to share with me. We don’t want to waste food, do we?”

“No, of course not.” He sits on one end of the bed so Tony can leave everything between them.

Maybe Tony clearly sucks at consoling people, but he will bring all the food Peter wants, if that serves him best. Tony could harp on about it, about what’s got him this… this _deflated_ , but he doesn’t do it. This time he prefers to keep quiet.

Peter reaches into a paper bag wordlessly, unwraps the cheeseburger and guzzles the first half under Tony’s knowing look. Then he pauses to swill the coke directly from the bottle, thirsty and careless, and when he puts the carafe down, any trace of smile gone, his lips glisten beneath the blueish grey of the room, although it may also be grease from the burger, which he bites aggressively into again.

Tony’s brow softens as empathy thrums his heart - Peter’s eyes start glowing but not from bliss or gratitude, and when he takes the last bite, fresh tears run down his cheeks, drip from his jaw, and the flow doesn’t stop from there. He sniffles through a runny nose, his fingers trembling when he reaches for another burger, but he keeps eating. And he eats, and eats, and eats.

Tony smiles softly. “Is it that good, Underoos?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter utters as best as he can.

“That’s what I thought,” Tony whispers, and leans forward to grab a chicken burrito from one bag.

In a comfortable silence, Tony starts eating too, and lets Peter be until there’s no food left to eat nor tears to cry.

* * *

Sometimes he wonders whether it’s normal to miss someone when he has just seen them ten minutes ago.

It is normal, at least for him. His entrails get uneasy as soon as he leaves home for a mission, and he’s only able to think about solving it in a jiff and returning as soon as possible. For this very reason, he stays beneath the heat of the blankets while Peter is busy with making Sam wake up from his lethargy, and Tony watches him with half-open eyes, still with the drowsiness of a disrupted dream, and smiles.

It’s unconscious. Looking at Peter having so much energy from this early, dawn just breaking through the curtains, has awakened in him a sense of harmony and joy that escalates as seconds pass by and Peter keeps complaining over Sam, feet dipped in the sofa and hands on his hips. He’s frowning, but it’s subtle, just like the half-smile he cannot mask. In addition, he’s in no position to ask for anything when even he seems to want to dive back into sleep—the baggy shirt he’s slept in is disastrously messed up, one side of his face got pillow marks, and his hair sticks up here and there.

The surge of fondness comes unexpectedly, and Tony wishes he were at his side to tap the hair down. Tony could do it, if he chose to, and Peter wouldn’t stop him. Peter’s like that, you know, always willing to give and receive any kind of affection, any hug or caress.

Peter’s eyes flat-out careen to him, and Tony startles, widening his lids and holding his breath behind tensed lips.

“Mr. Stark! Are you awake too?” Peter chides, although it comes out so low and tender it sounds more like a good-morning.

He’s not beaming as he usually does when he tries to encourage them to get up and start a new day, but his forehead and lips are wrinkle-free and his eyes only transmit light-sleep and boundless joy.

It’s when Peter blinks that Tony gets out of his stupor, and covers himself with the blankets. He only grunts in response, and although he should’ve expected it, his heart cannot help but speed up when he hears feet hitting the carpeting of the lounge.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Stark? Do you feel bad?”

He feels Peter’s presence next to him, and just as Tony puts away the blankets, Peter puts his hand on his forehead. The contact makes Tony falter without knowing what’s happening, and it’s only when he opens his eyes that he sees Peter peering down at him, wrinkled eyes and hand resting on his skin, warm, gentle, caring.

Something startling yet yearned seems to root in his core, bold and curious, like peering through the door of a secret room. He even seems to love assuden, love the pale yellow that enters through the curtains and wraps Peter’s face as if the light comes out of him. Love for the softness of his fingers and palm and hand in a whole.

Peter has set his hand with the softness of a butterfly, and it’s pouring all its warmth into his skin, mild like tender sun.

Tony’s lids fall drowsily, giving up to the touch, and he brings his hand up to rest it slowly, endearingly, onto Peter’s.

The room is so quiet. He can feel beneath his fingertips the relaxed, vivid thump of Peter’s heart, his steady breath like a soft-sung lullaby. He says he’s all right, he just needs a few more minutes, but Peter’s hand lingers on his forehead for a while, until Tony, to his own surprise, falls asleep again.

* * *

Tony calls it affinity, to whatever is going on between Peter and he.

It’s the only thing he can do, call it affinity and move on instead of struggling to analyse his feelings and thoughts, because if he delves into the subject, he may get lost in a labyrinth, hearing a voice calling his name and turning a corner to only run head-on with an impasse.

Problem is, when he turns his face away and draws his attention to anything else that’s easier to comprehend, Peter comes tapping his shoulder - _Mr. Stark, check this!_ \- and Tony takes a breath, looks askance at him and soughts to make out what’s _this_ , this primal instinct that makes his heart race, break and rekindle oh-so-easily in an ongoing cycle.

Science forgive him, if he believed in any god up there and the effects of the planet alignment, he’d say this is a mystical thing, or perhaps a wizard meddling in his life with their crackling hands.

Because in the second he takes out of the chaos, when he’s just about to solve the riddle, _ah, this is it?_ , it quakes and shakes off Tony’s world, like it’s just been teasing him the whole time, and Tony is back in the beginning, only more baffled and helpless—with each week that passes, with each smile and tear Peter sets free, the conception blurs and tries to morph into something more definite, but his eyes have not yet fully guessed the outline.

“...to take that back.”

Tony halts dead in the corridor.

As Happy informed him just a few minutes ago, Mr. Cord wanted to talk to Pepper about the subject of a collaboration with his company, but since she was out for a few days, Tony would have to be the lucky one to assist him. Which Cord has not digested well, offensively grumbling about professionalism and seriousness, and saying he needed to speak to Pepper in person because they had been postponing that meeting for a long time and that otherwise he will have to cancel any agreement.

That was some bullshit. Happy’s not a partisan of bullshit, earnestly asking Tony through the comm if he could kick him out. Tony doesn’t usually lose his temper in these scenarios, so he had decided to get down and see what was happening.

But Happy hasn’t told him that Peter is on the take, too.

“No, I’m not gonna allow you to speak ill of Mr. Stark, let alone in front of me,” the kid says firmly.

Leaning against the wall, Tony connects the dots and concludes that Peter has run into Cord at the entrance and has heard him disparaging Tony.

“Aren’t you an apprentice of his?” Cord says, tone dripping with disdain. He must’ve looked Peter up and down. “He’s not gonna hire you, boy. He’s gonna take advantage of you, he’s gonna fill your head with garbage and then he’s gonna get rid of you without even saying thanks.”

Well, that’s harsh. Harsh, contempted and cold, if Tony’s just. The fact is that it’s been true in other times, and for a millisecond Tony closes his eyes waiting for Peter to believe him.

But oh, he’s so wrong.

“You sound bitter,” Peter says, condescending. Tony opens his eyes to the gray floor. “He did that to you, perhaps? ‘Cause if he did, he must’ve had a reason.”

“Watch your tone, brat,” Cord growls. “Aren’t there any decent adults on here?!”

The one who should watch his tone is him, because Peter could smash him against the wall with one hit if he wanted to.

“Oh, are you also disrespecting Happy now?”

“I’m telling you I need to speak to Ms. Potts,” he insists, almost yelling.

“Ms. Potts’s not—“ Happy tries to intercede.

“And I’m telling _you_ ,” Peter interrupts. “...she’s not available and that you’ll have to speak to Mr. Stark instead, but if you don’t apologise for what you’ve said he won’t attend you.”

“Who in the hell do you think you are to make that decision?!”

“Mr. Stark’s man through and through.” Peter lets out instantly, just as authoritarian.

Tony chortles. It could be misleading depending on the meaning he gives it, but Peter has said it with honour.

Honour is what Peter gives to his name, and pride, and grandeur. As if Tony were the great king of a prosperous and happy kingdom, loved and respected by each and every one of its citizens. Cord would be the baddie, the shoddy king of the neighbouring kingdom who has been crawling in search of money and glory. Peter has given Tony’s name _nobility_ , as though Peter were a knight in shining armor sent to defend His Majesty’s honour, even if he lost his life in it.

Tony hears Cord exhale hard through his nose. He mustn’t go well with a squirt talking him back.

It serves him right.

Walking out of the corridor, Tony claps his hands together. “Cord!” he jumps in, faking his most respectful tone. “Why the surprise visit?”

Three pairs of eyes, four counting Cord’s companion, stiff as a post, careen to him at the same time. Peter and Happy step forward, probably about to rant, but Tony makes them close their mouths by outstretching a hand in the air.

“About time,” Cord sneers, canting his shoulders back. If ever there was a grimace of sympathy, Tony can’t see a dreg of it. “Mr. Stark, we discussed over the phone we’d have a meeting today but your… _subordinates_ …” he tilts his head to Peter and Happy, emphasizing scornly like he’s tasting poison; “...won’t let me in.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. Subordinates, he says. If only he knew what they are capable of, he wouldn’t speak to them like that. From the corner of his eyes, Tony can see their sour faces and clenched jaws, emitting an energy that urges to lower the voice and bow the head as a token of surrender.

Over time, Tony has come to regard these signals as a litmus test - if Happy and Peter react defensively to someone, like cats arching their backs, hair upright, an alarm goes off in Tony’s head as a warning to be cautious. They’ve never been wrong, and according to what he has just heard, Cord is no exception.

Not that Tony’s surprised.

Tony turns back to him. “Then… I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he says, low, flat, against how upset he feels. Deliberately, he comes closer, barely two feet apart from Cord. “You’ve disrespected me and my guys here. So you and your goon can kindly fuck off.”

Cord’s mouth drops open and he blinks in shock. His expression wavers between confusion and rage, eyes roaming back and forth between Tony and Peter before closing his mouth. Slowly, the grimace in his face gets deeper.

“You just made a mistake, Stark,” he snarls, a hidden menace in between Tony already knows very well.

“Yeah, poor me,” Tony humours him dryly, keeping his eyes from rolling out of boredom.

Few seconds pass by in which they hold gazes, until Cord tutts angrily and together with his bodyguard turn around and walk away. Once they finally exit the door without looking back, Peter scoffs.

“What’s his problem, man.”

Tony’s head snaps towards them, both with an annoyed face shadowing their faces and curving down their lips. But their arrogant stances, chests out and arms folded, look like they’re delighting in it. Unbelievable.

The stare catches Happy attention. “We had everything under control,” he says quickly, raising his hands reassuringly.

“Really?” Tony narrows his eyes. “Because it looked like Peter was about to bite Cord’s head off while you stood over there freaking out.”

Happy lifts the index and opens his mouth, but he curls the finger back in. He sighs. “To be fair, it looked different from the inside.”

Letting out a measured breath through his nose, Tony shoots a glance to Peter. “Anything to say in your defense, Spidey?”

“What did you expect?” Peter snaps back, but his bitterness sounds low and too fake, and he’s still not meeting his eyes. His confident tone doesn’t match his corporal expression and his hands are hidden under his armpits in an awkward arm-cross. “He was pestering you out of nothing. I couldn’t just... listen and say nothing,” he mumbles at this collar.

He’s pouting - he knows well he shouldn’t lose his temper like that but still remains adamant, and he’s _pouting_ , aware Tony’s going to reprimand him and teach him lessons of autocontrol, upset for the name-calling Tony’s been given, brave for standing up for him. Without any doubt, the feel of responsibility seeping into his veins egg him on to take a stand and make clear Peter shouldn’t get in over his head.

But Peter’s pouting, and Tony’s grown quite weak.

Happy, who knows better, quirks a brow and curls up his lips, mocking him subtly, or so he thinks - the smart-ass sheen in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed, the same cunning energy a parent emits when they catch their child doing something hilarious.

Tony only looks away.

* * *

It’s not unusual for them to fall asleep during a workout. When they’re on their own, of course. But the days when the Avengers are not complete, either because they’re unavailable, either because they’re resting or recovering in the infirmary, Tony and Peter have no choice but to test their improved skills with each other, despite the level difference.

They take it so seriously they sweat their guts out from dawn till dusk. They only stop a few minutes to rest, eat something, go to the bathroom, then return to the matter with the same willingness as before. Neither of them gives out or halts—it’s a continuous coming and going, always careful not to overdo it and not hurt beyond chafing or bruising.

Peter handles every hit against all odds. He’s gotten a lot better after these last weeks - the kid works his ass off and it _shows_ , he’s not tired although it’s been hours, and keeps this blank expression of concentration that makes him look more like a man rather than a kid. Even so, he keeps losing, since Tony’s not going easy on him at any moment.

Not inflict harm, just attack and defend, attack and defend. It becomes mechanical, even, to a point where any of them thinks about what he is doing or for what, or where, or who is watching. They focus on each other’s movements as if they are a work of art to be carefully interpreted, slowly, calmly, inhaling when defending, exhaling when attacking. The movements are slow and perhaps monotonous, but they never, _never_ are the same. It never gets old, no matter what others may say. There is always a variation, a different angle, a gram more of force, a centimeter more of speed. Something insignificant but that could mark victory or defeat in a real battle with real enemies.

They always end up exhausted, so full of bruises and feverish heat through the skin they immediately head to their bedroom. They don’t even bother to take a shower—tomorrow will be another day, and they fall asleep at zero point.

That’s why it’s rare for both of them to get distracted, too high on adrenaline for bedtime; it’s rare for them to sit against the wall of the combat room, and whisper about work or school. It’s rare for them to observe the blots of stars through the large window at the other side of the room, shoulder to shoulder, and not even consider whether they should sleep it off as soon as possible.

It’s rare, and yet.

Yet they natter until their throats have no wiggle room, until Peter laughs softly with his eyes shut and Tony hears him dully. The night silence offers him a harmony that he has hardly received in these last days, the serenity of knowing they’re both okay, alive and able to enjoy these homely moments together.

Peter’s head settles lightly on his shoulder. It doesn’t bother him at all, on the contrary, the extra warmth comforts him even more and encourages him to rest his head on Peter’s.

Even with all the effort accumulated during the day, Tony doesn’t feel even a hint of weariness. Not now, at least. He’s not thinking about how he will attack in the next second, or about the mission that awaits them tomorrow as soon as dawn breaks.

He’s just listening. To the quietness, to Peter’s deep breathing, as relaxed as he hasn’t long heard. To Peter’s heartbeat, soft, steady and yet beautifully vivid. Thump, thump-thump. Thump, thump-thump.

Tony counts the heartbeats as if none resembles each other, as if they will never repeat. Peter’s alive, and calm, and merry as he deserves. He has worked what’s not written to protect his aunt, to protect the entire city and to become better every day. To never give up, even if the situation seemed to be totally against him. To make sure everything was in order, that everything was fine, that the work was done and well done.

So Tony wants Peter to rest, sleep and dream of a world where his whole family is content, with a life that gives him all the peace he cannot find in the real world but one day he will surely find. Because, without a doubt, Peter will find the solution to all the problems that take away his sleep.

Tony really, _really_ wants Peter to rest.

***

Turns out he’s also fallen asleep, as he can see by blinking at the rose-gold light of dawn making his eyelids flutter.

He has to nod off a little to wake up completely, and blink many times to get used to the light. The chirping outside is sharper now, and the humidity of the dew in the air that comes in through the open windows, automatically opened, clings to his skin to finish waking him up. It’s fresh and pleasant, and takes him out of his stupor as soon as he notices an extra weight on his thighs.

He looks down, still with a bit of drowsiness clouding his brain, and his breathing halts.

The extra weight is Peter. He’s turned his back on him, still asleep as a log judging by the loud breathing and the slow rise and fall of his silhouette. His head rests on Tony’s lap, tufts of hair splayed and camouflaged in Tony’s dark trousers. Brown reflects here and there, shining bronze beneath the gold of sunrise.

Tony doesn’t have the heart to wake him up. As relaxed as Peter is now, he won’t be in the next few days. And the more Peter rests, the better it will be for both of them, because Tony can’t stand to watch Peter drained of life and about to faint. It’s heart-wrenching, to see such an important pillar in his life falling apart.

So he reaches down instead. He will only touch, _caress_ , if he feels brave, that head full of ideas and worries and endless empathy and affection that comes out naturally. His heart gallops in his throat, and he holds his breath for so long his lungs burn.

Is this what they call paternal instinct? He wants to stroke Peter’s hair as he has gently patted Natasha’s back, as he has embraced Rhodey’s shoulders.

He can’t see Peter’s face, but he knows he must look tranquil as though he doesn’t have to worry about anything or anyone there. This makes Tony feel somehow special. It’s stupid, but the fact that Peter allows himself to falter only in front of him is certainly a privilege that very few can see.

So when Tony brings his hand to Peter’s fluffy-looking curls, he’s giving back the gesture of affection. Just that. Nothing special.

His fingertips are inches from grazing hairs, and his heartbeats have turned painful.

It’s normal, it’s perfectly normal and natural to want to touch your favourite young adult because you feel it so, yet his body behaves as though he’s opening the Pandora box. He’s shivering like a leaf, goddammit, and he has to clench his jaw so the air doesn’t slip away in case the noise breaks the atmosphere or shatters Peter’s dreams, he doesn’t move a muscle in case Peter wakes up and Tony loses his opportunity, but it wouldn’t make sense, right? If he truly wants to show Peter he also appreciates him and feels comfortable at his side, he should do it when Peter is of sound mind and body, not when he’s asleep as a rock because he will never know.

What if he never knows? What if Peter never comes back from his next mission and Tony has not dared yet to say ‘I care about you, too,’ ‘You worry me too much, squirt,’ or ‘This wouldn’t be the same without you, kiddo’.

He would never know.

But when Peter stirs, Tony slowly withdraws his hand.

Stirring on his lap, Peter switches to turn his head, and lets out a groan as he blinks against sunshine. He’s never been lazy or twitchy, on the contrary, he’s always the first one to get up for the new day. But now he has the face of needing to stay like this for a few more minutes, eyes and brow creased as if annoyed to wake up. He brings a hand up to shelter his eyes from the sunrise. He opens them slowly, still getting used to the amount of light, and he shoots a look right at Tony.

He beams, so glowy the sun can’t even compete. “Good morning, Mr. Stark.”

If his heart was already wrenching a few seconds ago, now it just billows.

He quickly looks away from Peter’s, searching for something in the room to distract himself from the fondness pooling in his chest. It’s okay to feel this, it’s okay to love someone, Pepper has told him herself, there’s nothing wrong with that because it will be all right. He will not lose Peter.

It will be alright.

“Morning, kid,” he replies, closing his eyes like he needs more time to wake up. As if. “We should get breakfast before it’s all gone.”

As Peter doesn’t say anything, Tony opens an eye and takes a sidelong glance to find Peter still smiling, still shining cute beneath rosy sunlight.

“Yeah, we should!” Peter sits up suddenly, the joy never leaving his lips.

Tony sighs. He has lost the opportunity, but something in that little curve of Peter’s smile, something playful in those eyes, makes him suspect Peter has been awake enough to know what Tony was about to do.

But Tony stops dwelling.

* * *

In the aftermath of the radical change in his life almost a decade ago, Tony began to have a better grasp on what he truly wanted.

To give his all, protect the present, and save the future so. On some occasions he might not have taken the proper measures to accomplish it, but he tries. He tries so earnestly and well-intentionally he sometimes gets blind, and tired, and the only thing he wants then is a break.

His restless conscience won’t permit him, though. So he just gazes out the window and imagines he’s alone in a cabin on the hills, hearth glowing in slow motion but flurry flitting outside in whirlwinds. There’d be icicles clinging from the cornices and from the tree branches not far from there, and the breeze would be brisk enough to chill his face, and the mist would be dense enough to damp his lungs. His breath would be steam, and Tony would smell frosted pines and cool dawn.

When Peter states he’s going on vacation with his classmates, Tony wishes it were him.

Again, it’s not feasible, so Tony tells him to have fun to his health and pulls Peter’s beanie down to his ears.

“It’s December, young buck,” he rebukes absent-mindedly.

“I’ve got my powers” the kid reminds him, as if that’s enough to make Tony stop.

“I don’t give a damn,” Tony replies, looping the scarf three times around Peter’s neck. “You could catch pneumonia.”

To be fair, the kid does look like a toddler wearing one of those puffer coveralls that doesn’t allow to move a muscle. Plus, Happy is waiting for him in the car to take him home so May can drive him and his friends to the airport and bid him properly; he won’t be exposed to the frost for very long.

Tony sighs. “Do me a favour and be careful, huh?” He has repeated the same so many times since he met Peter, it comes out impulsively. “Stay close to your friends and don’t talk to strangers.” He makes a knot with the scarf that covers Peter’s mouth and cheeks, his glowy honey eyes standing out even more. “And don’t you _dare_ get into trouble as Spider-Man, you hear me, owlet?”

Peter rolls his eyes, letting out a deep breath. “I know, Mr. Stark. I’ll only be out for two weeks, anyway. We’ve been apart longer than that.”

“Yeah, but not as far. Even if you call me, I can’t get there as quick.”

“I’ll be okay,” he insists, loosening a tad the scarf constricting his throat. “God, you sound like May.”

“Call me if you need anything, all right?” Tony tightens the scarf again, overlooking the heat making Peter’s face blush.

“I will,” Peter says. Then he looks directly at Tony, and smiles softly. “I’ll miss you, Mr. Stark.”

And Tony doesn’t know whether it’s because Peter has expressed it with such frankness or because of the feeling of endearment rolling up in his stomach, or because he won’t see this kid for two entire weeks. But his instinct acts free, and Tony raises his palms from Peter’s scarf to his face and draws him in to give him a little smooch on the forehead.

It’s not even a full-fledged kiss. It’s just a brush of lips against warm skin, a typical gesture parents do when they say goodbye to their children at the school gate or when they tuck them in bed. A fleeting, affectionate gesture. Completely instinctive.

Tony opens his eyes. A beat passes, then he picks up on what he’s done. Drawing back slowly, he takes up that Peter has gone wide-eyed and stiff as a board. It’s not until he blinks and stars gurning that Tony breaks eye contact, clearing his throat as he tries to make his most neutral face.

Something clicks in his head. A light switch activated on its own, in a dark room. And in the center, there’s Peter. He’s there again, smile fulgent and taunting; taunting to go for it, to seek what’s going on, to lastly get an answer and embrace the triumph, well-known but welcomed. So welcomed.

But Tony keeps silent. The impulse hunkers down his throat, right behind the knot of his tie. The impatience, the repressed rush of it, soars feisty but shivers out of self-defense. There’s an urge to catch and hold dearly for always, like hearing the first cry of a newborn. There’s an urge, but also a tremor, and an uncertainty that detains any feeling from flying free.

“Mr. Stark…” Peter starts saying, but before he can even go on, Tony spins around.

It’s common knowledge he lost shame eons ago. Otherwise, he would be wishing to crawl out of his skin and never come back to himself; he dedicates these tokens of love to Pepper and to Pepper only, for time, trouble, and heartbreaks have shattered down that unbreachable shield so Tony can show his love without feeling vulnerable.

But Peter hasn’t gone through that process - they haven’t been about to blow up through the roof of the compound, they haven’t been in the centre of gossip columns’ sight. They haven’t even known each other for that long and, against all odds, Tony has felt such a need to do something before Peter leaves, that he has been unable to avoid his body from taking the reins over his brain.

And now Peter may even say he’s not his son, that he feels uncomfortable with those little acts of affection unbecoming of him and, _please_ , not to do that ever again.

“Call me if something happens, okay? Take care.” And just like that he walks away towards the stairs, waving goodbye without daring to roll his head back.

After a pause, Peter chuckles. “Will do!” he shouts with mirth.

When Tony hears Peter’s footfalls moving away and the glass door of the lobby closing, he deigns to turn around and watch how Peter approaches the car and opens the passenger door, smile so bright Happy stares at him with an eyebrow quirked.

Tony sighs, noticing himself smile. He will take it into account for the future.

* * *

Tony gets to his bedroom, and the existential crisis hits right after.

It’s not the fatigue that bursts the bubble, nor the sudden awareness of the staples holding his wounds closed beneath the gauzes. Not even the click of the door shutting behind and ricocheting off the walls. It’s the solitude, familiar yet hideous, wringing his sides in a smothering grip. It’s solitude, and silence—oppressive, brutal, making reality snap like a lash to the back.

The remorse was cooped up in a corner of his head like a waterdrop in an ashen sky, too minuscule and irrelevant as opposed to the swarm of everything else going in and around. But stepping foot in his bedroom has vanished all the mist and has billowed the droplet into a thundercloud all of a sudden. There’s no more room to think of anything else, darkness is too mucky to sight land, quietness too appalling to dare say a word.

It’s an oversung elegy, same lyrics but different tone. Still devastatingly painful. He should’ve gotten used to it by now, it’s been _ages_ since his life got saved by the bravest man he’s ever known. Yet, no matter the years rolling on, no matter the inevitable many deaths their battles take away—Tony’s still suffering.

No-one is near to prove he’s safe and sound, and his mind remembers the reason for his splintering heart and rewinds like an old videotape.

And he’s standing there.

He’s out there, anew, scene vividly murky and grotesque to a fault. It’s here where he didn’t want to return, where bloodcurdling, lifeless eyes rivet on him, screams shred his soul and carbonised skin makes him taste dust. Where the scorching heat boils the corpses, corpses reek of overburnt clothes, clothes dampen with molten meat, and it all churns into only one stench that is nauseatingly strong. It clogs his nose like a stab, gnawing up and up until his eyes sting soggy.

The fog, instead of opaquing the scene, makes the queasiness build quicker in his stomach, and he has to rub his face to not lose track of time, nor of space. It’s over. He’s not there anymore, he’s not _there_ , he’s now in the compound, wounds treated and dust washed away.

As is the custom, the team has tried getting him to see it’s not his fault, that it was grueling to stop Grim Reaper with no civilian casualties. It was nearly _impossible_ , he knew, a manoeuvre with no other alternative, very dicey, too complicated to control. It was certain there would be some losses. But the explosion and the collapse right after were more violent than they could’ve imagined.

There were kids - squirts that barely knew how to walk, toddlers who hadn’t yet had the chance to say their first word, women that surpassed already the seventh month of gestation.

Forty-two. It’s been forty-two people, and Tony has seen how they all were wiped out by fire and smoke, how the engines of nearby cars and buses flared up in a chain reaction, fueled by the projectile he had launched.

 _It was them or the entire city_ , the Avengers have stated when everything calmed down. Pepper has insisted it was like that sometimes, that it was a perk of the job that sadly he couldn't get rid of and much less avoid. He’s aware of that, too. A lot more people could’ve died, but the shrieks, the blood, the cries. The stiff bodies.

Remorse tugs at his heart, and he has to lean back in the door to not collapse. His knees buckle as his inner voice rasps _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ —

His back slides down against the door, to the cold floor. The tightness in his chest sharpens, heaving his core and increasing his breathing until it’s agonising to inhale. A lump in his throat keeps him from swallowing and tearing away the intrusive thoughts clung to him, draining the last remaining bead of integrity he has.

A quiver taking over his whole body, he covers his face with his hands and tries to take deep breaths, in and out, in and out. The unease in his ribcage does not recede. It keeps throbbing and spanding instead, like a fierce hurricane, wrecking and crushing until he finds himself digging his nails into his legs.

His eyes burn. It’s disheartening. He’s a grown adult, well-established and mature and strong, he’s been a hundred times over this, and still—he buries his palms into his eyes so the tears don’t leak.

Still, it hurts. It hurts like his very first failure, but he cannot afford to cry, cannot afford to crumble in the doorstep of his bedroom because he’s not supposed to break down just like that. He’s _Iron Man_ , dammit, and must get his shit together, call it a day - for worse or for better - and have a good sleep to heal and prepare for the next battle.

Sometimes he wonders how it would be to give in. To draw back, let someone else take the reins. Disengage from the situation, whatever it may be, and feel no remorse whatsoever, for he has already done enough, has already complied with humanity very, very long away. He has done so fucking much and has _lost_ so fucking much he no longer discerns whether it’s worth it, at least for him.

Nobody knows the misery that takes saving people knowing he’s leaving behind so many others, knowing he’s the only one responsible for his decisions and that later he will have to deal with it all alone, without cameras or acclaims. He’s alone, because nobody else notices the darker part of the fame and the glory and the billionaire, splendid life of hero he leads. Because everyone would say, _You chose this, you’re not supposed to complain_ , and he’s tired of that, too.

God, he’s so tired, tired of this liability squashing him and turning him into a deplorable, useless man that cannot muddle through to stay afloat. He’s _exhausted_ , and he questions whether to throw everything to the wind. It doesn't matter anyways - he always ends up answering to himself and coping with whatever he finds, rolling up his sleeves to get down to work and save the world one day more.

Over and over and over, the circle never ends, and it gets worse with every lap.

There’s a knock on the door, and he startles violently.

All the nebula of _what ifs_ and _maybes_ clears up, and he can at last suck in wobbly and open his eyes wide. He’s avidly aware now of the shape of the furniture further away, of the dripping faucet in the restroom and of the dim, whitish light reaching through the crack in the door. It’s not as gloomy as before, but he’s still purblind, and the storm dwindles a bit, but it’s still roaring. Still, still, still. Not anymore, it’s always _still_.

“Mr. Stark? Are… are you there?”

His voice comes subdued and humble, a bit wavering. Peter is always gentle and kind anyway, but he’s managed to sound even more delicate. Tactful, even. He’s concerned about him, perhaps? Is Tony making a teenager ensure his mentor does not crumble and feel sorry for himself?

Heaving a long sigh, he rubs his face and tilts his head up. His vision is fuzzy from squeezing his eyes too hard, and the umber ceiling is the ugliest he’s seen in his life. He will have to change it one of these days. To give it a coat of lighter paint, platinum gray, if Pepper agrees.

The knock on the door recurs.

Tony clears his throat. “Go to sleep, kid. I’m all right.”

A beat passes. Then another, and when Tony believes he can lean against the door to get up and at least— _at least_ , make it to his bed, Peter hums from the other side.

“No, you’re not.” His tone tilts at the end, altering the statement into a confused question. “You may have tricked everyone else but—I know how you really feel, Mr. Stark.” Tony huffs at that; it's rather like Peter, to stand outside his bedroom at all hours just to say he can’t lie to him. “It’s true! It’s like—do you… do you remember the first time we talked, in my house, and what I told you? And when… Staten Island, what you said? We’re… we’re supposed to save anyone we can because we’re able to. But when we fail, that’s on us. And it shouldn’t be like that. It _doesn’t have_ to be like that. You’ve saved many people out there, Mr. Stark. You’re—you were so… awesome.” Shaking his head, Tony scoffs again. It must be loud, since Peter groans of helplessness. “Really, it’s crazy! I may have said it a million times, perhaps? ...Actually, I don’t know if I’ve told you personally but! You _are_ awesome. And… kind, smart, brave, brilliant and—I can’t think of more cool adjectives but you’d fit in all them.”

No, he wouldn’t. A part inside Tony craves to be persuaded, to be indulged by Peter’s soft praises and buy them with bold agreement, but the other part, the most dominant and pessimistic one, urges him to turn a deaf ear, to get Peter away from him with a couple of yells and curl up on his bed for the rest of the night, even if he doesn’t get to sleep a wink.

“It’s—it’s frustrating, not being able to live up, isn’t it?” Peter goes on, lower and shier, if possible. No, not shy— _intimate_. Intimate is the word, subdued on the verge of afflicted, almost desperate. Tony leans his chin on his forearms. “Every time I disobey you and mess up, it’s like… damn, I should’ve done this, or… what if I had done that? Would it have been better? Or would it have been worse? Am I really the best for this? Am I even… the strongest form of myself right now? Or even… would it be better if I had done nothing at all... if I was the one who died?” Devastation slams into Tony with a bitter thump, and the tangle in his throat narrows even more. Peter shouldn’t be thinking about any of that, what the fuck, how in hell could he—. “I wonder about that all the time. It’s depressing, to be honest. Sometimes… I know you’re probably going to reprimand me about this but? Sometimes I lock myself in my room, lay on my bed and close my eyes until it gets better. And I… I cry for hours. I know I shouldn’t shut myself down like that, but it’s just… _too much_.”

Shit. Has he been feeling like that all this time, whenever he screwed up? Tony thought he was the only one neglecting himself and that he hid it very well. There’s someone else, it seems, and it physically pains him that this someone is Peter. He’s just a squirt. A squirt with superpowers who could lift a truck with one hand, but still a squirt with his own fears and concerns like any other, and Tony knew that Peter had doubts about himself, but he didn't know he’s been hurting as much as Tony has. No, _no_ , Peter cannot suffer like that, not him, he’s not made for any torture at all and Tony won’t allow him to stay that way.

It’s wrong, for Peter to bear this burden alone. He doesn’t deserve it. The one thing Peter does is save people, avoid catastrophes, give his all with limited experience and recent skills and a suit made by a human and therefore susceptible to flaws.

Tony’s rambling pauses. He blinks a few times, letting the information settle as it falls upon his shoulders.

It’s the same. Peter works with all his might, learns more and more every day, studies and spars, saves anyone in trouble even if his life is on the line, even if someone is awaiting him to come back home. Peter fails sometimes. He spends night and day trying to improve as well as blocked in his turmoil, chasing for a better version of himself that hasn’t yet come.

It’s not the first time, and not the last, that he sees too much of himself in Peter. But this one is the most desolating, because they both are battering themselves for something that slips from their grasp.

Blowing out a thread of air, Tony closes his eyes tight and gulps, hammering the impulse to cave in.

He’s right. The kid’s right, sometimes it’s too much and the only thing he wishes is to escape this reality and evade for a while until he becomes hollow. It’s preferable, isn’t it. Not feeling anything before guilt eats him away from within like a plague. Does the kid feel the same, that exact churn rusting him failure by failure? Does he feel ravaged and unusable, despite being still in one piece?

Temples pounding, Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and scowls at the relief easing his shoulders. He feels like shit, _Peter_ has felt like shit for the same reason several times before, and it does help Tony calm the anxiety—

How on earth can he feel better just because Peter’s questioning his worth, while dissolving in tears under the sheets?

It’s a heinous emotion, and yet, calming. Tony has never hated himself so much.

“It’s all right, Mr. Stark. Being a superhero is cool, but at the same time it sucks. People don’t see it, but we do. _I_ do. So... I only wanted you to know you don’t have to be alone. It may work to vent to someone or just… be in company. Just to know you’re not the only one.”

All right, maybe he’s in need of a hug. A very warm, big hug. He also has those kinds of needs from time to time, more than he would like, even, but Tony keeps them deep inside where nobody can ever see them. Pepper, perhaps, but not many more people. But Peter has seen through him as if he were transparent, as if it were obvious that Tony wants someone to tell him that he is doing great and that everything will be fine.

“I’m here for you, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, and judging by the proximity of his voice, Tony would say he has rested his forehead on the door. “I always am,” he adds, quieter, and Tony can’t help smiling with fondness.

Peter has no idea he always manages to make his heart shrink, has no idea the power he holds. Even the heaviness destroying his chest minutes ago is not so harsh anymore—it’s getting lighter, and less cold too. It’s getting better with every heartbeat.

“By the way, I’ve prepared something amazing for you. You’re now forced to come out and see it.”

A conversation that he had with Rhodey forever ago comes to him, from when he met the boy and Rhodey looked Tony up and down without believing he was treating another human being with such delicacy.

 _You’ve always had a soft spot for him_ , Rhodey had said, with an eyebrow raised. Tony had denied it too quickly.

But on second thought, he may have a weak point for the kid after all. He is the only one who could get him out of this whirlpool, and the only one who would open the door to right now.

“Please, Mr. Stark. Mr. Rogers has seen me around and—I think neither of us wants him to video-jeer me for staying up this late.”

Tony lets out a laugh, refreshing and enlightening. He sighs, still grinning, and stands up, shaking off the wrinkles on his shirt. As soon as he opens the door, Peter stumbles in the doorway, but he instantly recovers and smiles.

Although flustered, Peter throws his shoulders back, and reaches for Tony with an inviting hand that he wouldn’t dare hold on any other occasion. But Tony is being pampered this time, so he takes it.

After almost ten minutes wandering through the corridors half-blind, since Peter forces him to close his eyes and let himself be guided, Peter ends the journey and asks him to wait. They're in a very large room, because Tony has heard the noise of the big door closing. Is this how parents feel when their children give them those ridiculous greeting cards they have made at school with cardboard and glitter?

“You can look now,” Peter says.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Tony sighs one last time and opens his eyes slowly.

A halo of darkness brims the edges of his eyes, and in the center, there’s Peter. His gaze focuses. Peter stands a few meters from him, arms crossed and hands hid under the sleeves of his hoodie. There’s a light blue hue tinting his body, and Tony has to blink to realise Peter’s not looking at him—he has his head tilted back, a soft smile curling up the corners of his mouth.

He blinks once before following the direction of Peter’s eyes, and as he raises his head skyward, all he sees is stars.

On the plain ceiling there was before, now there’s a net of uncountable stars, constellations etched into each other and stardust scattered like blown up glitter. An aquamarine nebula spreads its way through the expanse of the night-sky, splitting it in two parts.

It’s so, so gorgeous. This ceiling is the prettiest he’s ever seen, black, navy and turquoise mottled with silver ink, as though the universe has exploded in front of him and all the stars have reunited in only one sky. Even it seems some stars flicker in synchrony with his heartbeat.

He hears Peter swallow. “You said you had no time to go out since you’re always so busy and tired and sleepy and so on, and so on... Well, if Mohammed does not go to the mountain, the mountain goes to Mohammed.” He laughs quietly, but Tony can’t take his eyes off the ceiling. “There’s something more,” Peter says, and Tony has to blink a few times to turn around his gaze and see Peter getting closer to the computer.

He looks quite content, with that thin smile still molded in his lips. He should be. Tony is in sheer awe, body lit up with neon indigo light and the most breathtaking skyscape on earth right above him.

While Peter is fidgeting with the holographic keyboard of the computer, Tony takes a look around. They’re in the basement, so silent and placid and _so good_ , he almost swears he can hear the shuffle of the gentle breeze outside. In fact, the atmosphere of the room alone seems out of a dream.

“All righty,” Peter says again, grinning wider if possible. He presses a button on the keyboard, and turns to him. “Look,” he points to a corner of the ceiling. “There, right under Orion’s Belt.”

Assuming he will come across some unknown planet or constellation with a hilarious shape, Tony cocks his head up again. The names of the stars and constellations pop up in white capital letters as his eyes go through each one of them. Procyon, Monoceros’ constellation, Alnilam a little more to the right. And there in the starlit sky, in the core of blotches of black and dark blue, there’s one orb titillating more than the others.

The letters appear above. TONY STARK, they read.

“All I had to do was fill in some information, choose what type of star I wanted and where, the name and the date,” Tony hears Peter explain, but it comes faded, as though his ears are all plugged up.

TONY STARK, it says. Just over there, light-years away but right in front of him. Nine letters, neat and white against black.

A star. A dazzling star has his name and surname and it’s enormous and fantastic and has _his_ name.

“Obviously, it’s your birthday. The date, I mean.” Peter keeps saying.

A piece of the sky under his name? Is this even real? He knew it can be done, that anyone could fill in a few data fields and name a random star as they wanted but—is this real? This kid, this sweet, _sweet_ kid, has named a star after his name?

“The certificate came in just this morning. I got the aluminium frame ‘cause, I don’t know, it suits you, and I think it’d look great in the laboratory. If you want to put it there, of course.”

A whirlwind of emotions spins and spins and spins, slow but unstoppable, and it’s increasingly stronger and devastatingly fonder, swarming warm in his chest like the cozy fire of a hearth. And he thought he would never feel like this again, this sense of pure, complete bliss. Of feeling valued and loved to bursting.

The star twinkles, and Tony purses his lips. He’s frowning, and without realising he’s trying not to weep, as pathetic as it may seem. That’s the moment he decides to paint the ceiling of his bedroom with royal blue, so that every night, when he goes to sleep, he stares at his own star and feels this exact warmth washing over his core.

_I freaking love it, son, don’t you see? Don’t you see what you’re doing to me?_

And he’s about to say it. He even opens his mouth, to say how much he appreciates the gesture and that it’s the most beautiful thing someone’s ever done for him, but words clog in his throat, gritty from pure emotion, and he has to shut his mouth and swallow.

Lowering his head, he blinks a few times, he even brings his fingers to his eyes, and presses into them. He has to get his shit together, he’s the adult here, he shouldn’t alter like this by a gift from a seventeen-year-old punk. But damn, isn’t he sweet. Isn’t he caring and the most kind-hearted human being he’s met, and isn’t Tony the happiest he’s been for a very long time.

It even feels like something unknown, the awareness, sudden and pleasant, taking root in his heart— _this kid loves me_.

He sighs shakily.

“Do you like it?” Peter asks, and another question pops up in Tony’s head,

_Do you like stars?_

He has his fingers squeezing into his eyelids as he chokes back the tears. If he looks and Peter’s still staring at him with that devotion he’s always looking at him with, Tony will break. But he’s been in worse situations. He can face anything, more so the excitement and love of a kid that has given Tony the best gift of his life unwittingly.

Rubbing his eyes in circles, he sighs once again, and lifts his head.

Peter has gotten closer a few more steps, hands in his pockets and half body leaning forward to see what expression Tony is making, and Peter takes nothing to change the concerned expression for a softer one.

Peter swallows, blinking away briefly before smiling strained at him. “I’m glad you’re alive, Mr. Stark,” he says, too quiet, too forced. His lips quiver. “I’m very glad.” Then his voice cracks at the end of the phrase, and there’s no need to say more because heartache bangs into Tony. His throat tightens. His eyes douse in a matter of seconds. He does not deserve Peter to love him, and yet.

Tired and sleepless, at two a.m after one of the most stressful nights of their careers, Peter stands there, under a splendid veil of stars that he has projected to make Tony feel better and where Tony’s name shows up in capitals.

All that to make him _know_ —to make him know he loves him with all his soul.

Peter loves him so much he’s on the verge of tears, because _thank god, Mr. Stark’s alive, Mr. Stark’s here_ , and Peter needs to let him know he’s wanted, and loved and valued at all costs.

Peter starts crying, and Tony gives up.

Before he can process his own movements, Tony crosses the space between them and slips his arms around Peter’s back, drawing him close to his chest. It catches them off guard, but Peter sobs louder in Tony’s shoulders, and Tony holds him, trying to control his own breathing. But it’s hard once Peter begins spasming and his own fingers find his way into Peter’s hair.

“Shhh… it’s okay,” he whispers into his head, gently massaging his back with one hand whilst caressing his hair with his fingers.

He’s in no position to comfort anyone since his own heart stabs and his eyes prickle, since Peter still grasps his shirt like searching for grounding.

“I… I don’t—” Peter whispers through the fabric of his shirt, new tears soaking Tony’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to die…”

Tony’s breath hitches for a second. The kid is almost hyperventilating. He’s turned into a sobbing mess and clings to him as though Tony is fading away, and Tony breathes profoundly once again to not succumb to this pressure in his chest that builds up with Peter’s sobbing. It hurts so bad to see Peter like this, to feel him this vulnerable and afraid, and that the reason behind it is precisely Tony, that he cannot bear it anymore.

He presses his face to Peter’s hair. “I’m not dying, Pete,” he says, not caring about his voice coming out wobbly and raspy. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I promise.”

And he hates himself very much right now, because he can’t promise anything. He’s not in the right to swear he will be alive and kicking by next week because _he doesn’t know._ He has no idea what the future has for him and whether he will be strong enough to face it. But he can’t tell him either that sometimes life is hard and none of them can assure they will see each other tomorrow, that they will live years and years like there’s no threats out there, making it almost impossible to fulfill.

However, when Peter’s asking him like this, when he’s shown him in so many ways he cares for him, that he loves him madly and that it would destroy him to keep on living without him ahead of time, Tony thinks seriously about keeping that promise, and that it makes no sense to lose his head over a mistake that can’t be fixed.

And yes, he’s made a lot of mistakes and he will probably repeat them, and maybe it’s not the right person to be a hero nor to decide which lives to save and which not.

He is indeed a mess. But if Peter wants to keep him in his life and hugs him this tightly, maybe he’s actually doing something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all didn't think I would miss the chance to write a Hug scene, right?
> 
> Part 2 is coming next week together with the epilogue, so if you want to share the fic in the meanwhile here's the [link](https://twitter.com/rashiisa/status/1271830018730209280)!


	2. Chapter 2

Their relationship is thriving from then on.

Tony is still a little reluctant when it comes to acknowledging to Peter’s gravitational affection, because although he has assimilated this kid loves him insanely and wants to spend time with him, deep down in his core Tony still sees it as unobtainable, as if he had the answer to the meaning of life right in front of him but his body was petrified onsite. He also didn’t perceive he was craving for something he didn’t know existed. Until now.

Even though it must be the eighth time Peter steps into the lab, his movements are still dubious and tense, as if he expected the mechanism he’s holding is exploding anytime. His hands tremble for a second, but he swallows and inspires deeply before getting down to work.

Tony is always around. Pending but not disturbing. Occasionally he indicates Peter the next steps he has to follow or hands him the tools he will need without saying a word, observing each one of his procedures.

Peter’s face is glowing. A flutter of fondness tickles Tony’s chest, making him take a breath and smile. He squeezes Peter’s shoulder, and Peter blinks at him, so excited the words run through his mouth and he can barely pronounce a single sentence.

Tony chuckles softly, and pats him on the back as a sign of approval.

* * *

_What if_ , a voice murmurs in the back of his brain. _What if you tried, triumphed, and had a great time_.

_What if not_ , Tony replies back, what if he jumps in headfirst and the momentum knocks him out, and he ends up drowned. Drowned, in an indoor pool in his household.

“Damn!” he hears Peter cuss at one side of the pool, hands held onto the edge and chest heaving.

In the adjoining lane, Wanda says something that makes Vision chuckle quietly - he’s spent the last half an hour seated on the sofa without looking away from her. Tony finds it fascinating, a bit boastful, that someone like him can flourish so humanely and fall in love. He doesn’t yet quite understand it, and doubts someday he will, but either way he’s happy for him.

Leaning his head back against the sofa, Tony closes his eyes. _What if you joined them_ , the voice suggests, _they’re having fun_. And the might that comes with the invitation encompasses the many other thoughts and engulfs them, distilling his brain until it’s nothing more than a stale _what if_.

He could. He could try. Maybe if Tony dives into the pool and respires underwater, he will quench his anxiety, put an end to the prodding little voice that gets inside him and obstructs the cogs of his brain. It’s trial and error, like everything in life, so no matter what he does, he’s going to end up winning, to some extent.

His lids half-open, and the blinding amber light hampers him from opening them fully. Letting out a heavy sigh, he rubs his eyes in circles and tries to concentrate in the streams of the purifier burbling towards the surface, in the lap of the waves against the walls of the pool. He inhales the chlorine bedewing the steamy air until his nose prickles. There’s a fitful plash getting progressively closer, someone doing lengths, Tony surmises.

When he finally opens his eyes, he fixes them on a point of the ceiling where the light doesn’t dazzle him, where orange blends into greyish blue. He thanks himself for keeping off the panels, since the pale blue light from the walls of the pool is more than enough to illumine that side of the room. The ripples of the waters reflect in all directions, giving the dimness a glitzy blue hue.

Tony could slip in the water and have those billowing reflections on his skin, if he wanted to.

“So… you’re really not getting in?”

Somebody makes his thoughts aloud. Tony blinks, faces down, and here’s Peter, panting at the poolside, arms resting on the edge, soaked hair covering his brow. He has swum from one side of the pool like he’s in some competition - because, of course, he does nothing half-hearted - to this one, where Tony is lying down in a leather recliner, reading some documents he’s left forgotten on his lap beneath the halogen lights. It must be hilarious to see a dapper in an indoor pool because Peter looks at him wittily while he pushes his hair back, disentangling the locks with his fingers. Tony confirms the lights are just right, since they lit Peter’s eyes like they’re little stars, _star-eyed boy_ , and again, Peter belongs there, in azure water, but Tony doesn’t.

“No, I’d rather not,” he shifts on the couch, grabbing the papers and pretending to read.

He doesn’t yet find an appropriate posture, though. The recliner is suddenly too stretched out, the leather is too rough, the stuffing is too hard. Even the lights become too blinding on the pages when Tony barely reads two lines he can’t make sense of. He stares at them, reads them, re-reads them, and they still look like a horizontal barcode, a column of meaningless phrases annexed to each other in a foreign language Tony’s brain doesn’t quite understand.

He doesn’t try too hard - he gave up the moment his mind drifted treacherously but surely to the pool, where Wanda lets herself float, the waves lit blue, and where Peter keeps panting, now through his nose. Where he could make the voice shut up, or maybe not.

“Aren’t you tired,” Peter speaks, and Tony stays silent long enough for the words to take shape and make sense.

_Aren’t you tired_ , like an old woman might say, _aw, aren’t you sweet?_ Of course he’s tired, of course Peter knows, who doesn’t know, at this point? He has accepted it as a lifestyle already.

Tony blinks at him above the papers. “You asking me or telling me?”

“Um, asking?” He shrugs, chin leaned on his forearm. “Dunno, you’re always working on something. Plus, you’re not sleeping well.”

Tony’s gaze returns to the papers. He wasn’t expecting that Peter was the one throwing a fit to him, yet here we are. Because it feels like that, as if Peter is scolding him for not resting a second, and it’s not pity what Tony hears, it’s worry. Tony doesn’t deal well with that.

“You should know by now I’m a very active person,” Tony says, unphased. The letters on the papers stay indecipherable. “And the sleeping issue is not something I can control.”

“How so?” Peter’s voice soars, tinted with what sounds like desperation. “When I can’t sleep, what I do is sit at the window and I drink a glass of hot milk. I get sleepy right away.”

_Have you tried it?_ He seems to say with that emotion. _Try it, try it, try it._

Tony knows Peter only wants to help. He knows, Peter doesn’t miss any of the restrained signals of Tony’s behaviour and doesn’t look at him with pity nor pain - Peter sees him such as he is, a long-tired engineer trying his best to protect everyone, and Peter knows and he’s the one resting on the edge of the pool, cheek flattening against forearm and dripping ringlets plastered on his temples. It’s definitely not pity what softens Peter’s features, but Tony feels like it is.

“It doesn’t work like that for me,” he replies, giving up on the papers.

“Have… have you tried…” Lifting his head, Peter runs his fingers through his hair again, visually struggling to come up with something. “I don’t know, sleeping sooner, maybe?”

“Sleeping sooner,” Tony repeats slowly, staring blankly. He takes off his reading glasses and scoffs. “Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Peter’s face falls when he notes Tony’s words are laden with irony. Tony sits up, stares deadly at Peter’s eyes and says, “I have chronic insomnia, kid, do you believe I can fall asleep that easy at 10pm if I can’t even sleep a wink at 5am?”

The room gets deadly silent. Wanda and Vision have stopped speaking suddenly and they shoot at him jumbled looks he can pinpoint even from the other side of the room, and the only thing Tony can hear is the splash of the waves against the edges of the pool and the dull buzzing of the purifier.

Even Peter is quiet, and that’s saying something. Tony turns his gaze back to him, to his eyes open as though he can’t see at all. Tony exhales, relaxing down his shoulders.

Peter swallows hard and glances away. “No, sorry. You’re right, it’s ridiculous,” he lets out a strained chuckle, but his smile is weak and his look goes back and forth between Tony and the door of the changing room, looking for the way out.

He looks so contrite Tony facepalms. Peter’s innocuous suggestions intend nothing but help, and although it’s true the sleeplessness matter is wearing him out, he shouldn’t pick it up with Peter. Damn, he does need to rest, after all.

“It’s alright, bud.” Tony clears his throat. “It’s been years, I’m used to it,” he admits, offering a soft smile. Peter instantly settles down, cyan coming back to highlight his eyes. “It’s just I hate when people tell me to sleep more. As if I could, you know. I’m an insomniac, _Steve_. I don’t have yet the capacity to sleep whenever I want to.”

It takes a couple of seconds, but Peter smiles amusingly before drawing back the wall of the pool and swimming unhurriedly towards the ladder. Wanda and Vision don’t pay attention to them anymore, Wanda now out of the pool and approaching Vision, who waits for her standing with a towel in his hands. Without taking his eyes off her, Vision tucks her carefully, and for a moment Wanda’s eyes twinkle. Tony will have to make them kiss at some point if this senseless dalliance keeps going.

“Is there something I can do to help?” Peter asks, also with a towel around his body, and lies down on the other recliner, next to Tony’s.

“No, there’s not,” Tony replies. He finds it surprising how defeated he sounds, as though he hasn’t been aware until then that he was more or less okay with that. “It’s a combination of…” he continues. “The need of doing something constantly, being a night person and a bunch of… nightmares.” He glances back at Peter, raising his brows expectantly.

Peter stares back blankly before realising he’s expected to say something. “Oh. Um, yeah, I get them a lot, too. I think I follow you now.”

Smiling amusingly, Tony turns his gaze back to the pool, his reading glasses still between his fingers.

From the corner of his eyes, he can feel Peter still staring at him. Of course he gets it. It’s like a younger version of him, in many ways, and of course he also has nightmares after all he’s been through, of course they also take him out of sleep many nights, and while they may not have exactly the same issue, Peter begins to understand him, and to empathise.

Peter stops staring. “Have you ever...” he asks. His voice fades until it’s a whisper. “Have you ever seen a therapist?”

Tony stays silent enough for the noise from the purifier to come back to his senses. Mutely, he folds his glasses and leaves them on the coffee table between the recliners.

“No, I haven’t,” he mumbles. “But I’ll think about it.”

Peter smiles. “Good. They do help a lot. ”

If Tony interprets what he has said correctly, Peter himself has gone to therapy and it has worked for him in one way or another. So maybe they can help Tony, too, after all. Maybe Tony can speak openly about it, and they can excise that need to be useful all the time, then brave the night and the lit water of the pool. He will try.

He’s trying. Always.

“If this takes some stress off you ...” Peter speaks, looking up at him earnestly. “I can promise I won’t get in trouble anymore.”

And it’s the lights catching one side of Peter’s face each one, subdued orange right, cyan on the left; it’s his knotted curls seeping rivulets down his temples and it’s his goosebumped skin shuddering beneath the towel. It’s him, and his naivety, and his unnecessarily serious statement what makes Tony feel his heart is a size too big for his chest. He hadn’t realised it before, but Peter has also been trying, in his own way.

He doesn’t know exactly what it is, though. Gratitude, perhaps, or relief or happiness, but Peter is trying with all his might to keep a genuine expression while trembling like a sick jellyfish, and Tony can’t help but laugh.

“I don’t think you can do it, kiddo,” he says before turning around and closing his eyes.

Peter stutters. “I—uh? Well, at least I can try.”

Always trying.

Tony smiles lip-closely, ignoring Peter’s fake offended tone, and concentrates on the chatter of Wanda and Vision at the other side of the room, the buzzing underwater, and the brief waves plashing in the pool.

The voice’s long gone.

* * *

He wakes up startled in the middle of the night, breath agitated and heart wrenched in sorrow.

A few seconds have to pass by for his eyes to get used to the dark. Then he figures out the constellations on the ceiling, and right under Orion’s Belt, his star glows more than any other. Painting his ceiling room like Peter’s holomap has been one of the best decisions of his life, since it grants him a calmness he hardly gets in other circumstances.

Tony’s nightmares are usually the same in many ways, but nightmares with Peter taking centre stage are much more recurring and cruel, and there’s never, _never_ a way for Tony to save Peter’s life. It always ends up with Peter’s body in his arms, pale skin, lifeless eyes, and his own hands covered in blood. No one’s never around to help, it’s only Peter and him, and it’s always Peter the one getting hurt.

And Tony takes these nightmares like a warning to do something. If his mind is harming him with Peter being in danger swinging out there as if nothing, then he will have to find a way for him to be safer. The only thing he thinks of, lying down on his bed and staring at the star-bedecked ceiling, is to build Peter a new suit.

So he pulls back the sheets and gets up. He tiptoes across the room to not wake Pepper up and grabs a jacket and shoes, peeking at his star in the ceiling once more before getting out.

As he has expected, there’s no one in the corridors nor in the workshop.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

_“Yes, sir?”_

“How’s Peter?”

_“He’s sleeping deeply in his bedroom, sir.”_

Great.

And so he gets to work. At first he’s utterly blank, but as he recalls every time Peter goofed at the measures he required in uncommon situations but didn’t have, Tony adds features and protocols and many more versions of attack and defense that the current suit has. He’s so wrapped up in making the best version of Spider-Man he can ever make, he stays up all night and part of the morning without leaving the workshop. He blocks the entrance so nobody can enter except Pepper, and asks FRIDAY not to be bothered unless it’s an emergency.

And when he’s done, eyes hurting behind lids, Tony collapses on his chair, letting out a long breath of relief at the thought Peter will be safer.

Pepper shoots him a look when he calls it Iron Spider, but Tony doesn’t hide.

* * *

It’s been a strenuous morning, for a change. Between he hardly slept a wink last night and that they have been arguing over the same for hours without coming out of the conference room, Tony’s getting a migraine. He should’ve asked Pepper to stay, after all, to provide him moral support. Or even Peter, for Tony to feel he wouldn’t be the only one overwhelmed by the bustle of discussions that seem to go on and forever.

Tony blinks—it’s been hours since he heard from Peter. After they all had breakfast together, Peter stayed rummaging in the lab with the commitment of not screwing it up. Until now, Tony has received no message or warning from F.R.I.D.A.Y. And when it comes to kids, it means nothing good.

Too much calm.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he glances up to the white ceiling and turns around on his chair to ignore the questioning looks from the team. “What’s Peter doing?”

_“Peter has asked me not to tell you, sir.”_

And that confirms that, indeed, Peter’s screwing it up in a corner of the compound. Tony just hopes he’s not tinkering with something dangerous.

He scowls. “What, is he your boss now?” Nat and Clint try drawing his attention but Tony’s stroke more with F.R.I.D.A.Y. reconsidering saying what Peter’s up to.

He’s about to ask again when F.R.I.D.A.Y. lets it out all at once, like she’s confessing a crime.

_“He’s playing in the workshop with your second prototype for Mark L.”_

_Playing_? Is he trying to make some adjustments? Or maybe checking on the weapons? No, Peter wouldn’t do that. He knows by flesh how dangerous it may be, he wouldn’t risk it, much less so knowing the trouble he would get into. Still, what the _hell_ is he doing?

“Don’t tell him I’m coming,” he says, leaping up from the chair.

“Tony,” Steve’s stops him, and when Tony turns to him, he seems tired too. “We have to settle this now.”

“Did you listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Tony points at the ceiling. “The squirt is doing something he doesn’t want to tell me about, with one of _my suits_ , which is not even finished yet. I’m just taking a look and I’ll be back.”

And before someone can refute, Tony leaves the room.

The lights at the corridors bedazzle him, and they’re not even that bright. He needs to eat something as soon as possible and sleep tonight a bit more unless he wants to pass out. But this week is being _awful_ , and it probably will remain so for a couple of weeks. Nothing new to tell, anyways. He’s already used to this, and deep down he’s grateful Peter’s onto something, so Tony can come out of that room and get his mind off things.

And a great distraction he runs into when the doors of the workshop open and he sees Peter in the center of the room, standing in front of a mirror and back turned to the entrance. He’s wearing one of the Iron Man suits. The most recent prototype, moreover.

So this is what F.R.I.D.A.Y. meant with _playing_.

Peter takes off the helmet carefully, still unaware of Tony’s presence in the threshold. His hair is ruffled up and his cheekbones slightly blushed. He beams at his own reflection, admiring the armour covering his body from the neck to the feet—until he makes eye contact with Tony across the mirror, and his smile drops.

He spins around like driven by a button, eyes opening wide with panic and mouth hanging open. He’s totally paralysed, like a prey about to be devoured.

“The thing is,” Tony finally speaks up, brow raised. “I had a very different idea of what I was gonna find.”

In disregard of Peter’s innate cuteness as a basic premise, the volume of the suit, although fairly more stylised than the previous models, makes him seem tougher and huger in spades, more mature. It’s like seeing a younger, better version of himself, steel sheathed around his silhouette like made for him. And Tony has to admit he looks swell. Plus, the metallic maroon contrasts ensorcellingly with his fair-skinned face, now rouging like injected with ink.

“I’m just—I just wanted, you know—” Peter stammers, trying to explain too hastily.

“It’s all right, kid,” Tony approaches him with a cocky smile, amused by the squeak in Peter’s voice and the furious blush spurting in his face.

“I didn’t mean to go out with the suit, Mr. Stark,” he blurts out, and his eyes flicker back and forth between Tony and the suit wrapped around his body.

“I’m not mad—”

“I was just curious of how it would feel,” he says in a restrained tone, hands hovering over the empty spot of the reactor in the center of his chest.

Tony raises his hands in the air, but Peter’s not even looking at him. “Really, I’m good, I knew this had to happen sooner or later.”

“I’m gonna take it off,” he states, slipping his fingers in the joints between the pieces.

“Are you listening to me?” Tony gets closer, sighing when Peter stripes off a shoulder pad by force and it hits the floor, completely wrecked.

“Look, I’m taking it off,” he mumbles, now red to the neck.

“Kid—” Tony pauses.

He has to cover his mouth with a hand—Peter may know how to put on the suit, but it turns out he doesn’t know how to take it off, and the poor kid is so nervous for having been caught in the act that his hands sweat and his fingers slip between the junctions. It doesn’t even work like that, piece by piece, like some Star Wars lego. He has just to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“I’m gonna stop you right there before you hurt yourself,” he manages to say, whipping out his phone out of his pocket. “Don’t you wanna capture the moment, now that you’re wearing the suit?”

Peter’s head snaps up, hands still lingering on the other shoulder. His gaze blinks at Tony’s phone, and considers the offer for a moment before chuckling lightly.

“Yeah, that would be sweet,” he replies, letting Tony throw an arm around his shoulders to hold him closer. He smiles widely at the camera and raises two fingers just before Tony clicks on the button. “Man, Ned’s gonna lose it when I show him,” he says with a sigh. His smile remains there until some thought pops in his head. He lets out a quiet gasp. “Do you know what would be _awesome_?”

Tony squints his eyebrows while checking the photo on his phone. “Uhhh no, no idea, and don’t want to know.”

“ _You_ using _my_ _Spider-Man suit_ ,” Peter’s eyes go wide and bright, and the excitement seems to give off through his pores with the sparkle of joy in his voice.

Tony’s face goes blank. “No, that’s not gonna happen,” he says, and spins around to go back to the conference room, much to his chagrin.

“Oh, come on! It would suit you!”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Peter insists all he can until Tony is too far away to hear him. He would still beseech if he didn’t have all that hustle on him, so it’s not until Tony’s arriving at the conference room and seeing the team arguing as if Tony had never left, that he sets Peter free.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., get Peter out of the Mark L.”

_“On it, sir.”_

Before coming in, Tony checks his phone once more—it won’t take long to frame that photo and put it in his room.

* * *

Apparently he’s not the only one that has noticed. Tony has assumed it had been a figment of his imagination, due to all the chaos looming over them just an hour ago, but as soon as Peter vanishes from the living area without a word, Steve approaches Tony and leans against the wall.

“Hey, is Queens okay?” he asks, pressing the bandage on his side with a hand.

Tony frowns as he finishes removing dirt from his nails. “He only got a broken rib and a few scratches on his face. He will be as good as new soon”

“No, I don’t mean that,” Steve whispers, scowling at the thought rather than pain. “He looked… gone. He hasn’t even looked at us since we got here.”

To be fair, Tony has already noted something unusual in Peter—he hasn’t opened his mouth since they returned to the compound, just nodding or shaking his head when he was asked if he was all right. His eyes were blank, _hollow_ , even, but Tony had attributed it to exhaustion.

He shoots a look at Steve. “Did you all see anything out of the ordinary?”

“He was already like that when he found us,” he sighs, a tether in his voice as the only proof of exertion.

Something must’ve happened in between that has the kid off. It wouldn't be the first time Peter tries to hide a wound stating it’s nothing to worry about; fuck knows what else he might hide in order not to bother anyone.

“I’ll see what’s wrong,” Tony says. He stands up slowly, hitching at the throbbing pain in his left leg.

Not a big deal, anyway. Almost all of them have been injured in one way or another, to a greater or lesser extent. Peter is the one who has had the most luck, with only a fractured rib and bruises on his torso and arms, but otherwise he’s fine. That’s why Tony could breathe and tell himself Peter was fine.

Peter’s bedroom door is sealed shut, which is weird. Peter _always_ leaves it open, in case someone needs him. Worry has grown strong within Tony when he knocks gently, clearing his throat dimly before speaking.

“Petey, it’s just me,” he tries faintly, waiting for a refusal. “Let me in?”

Having no answer, Tony thinks about going back the way he came. If the boy’s not in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone talk to Tony. But then he gets to hear a throat-clearing.

“ _It’s… it’s open_ ,” comes Peter’s raspy voice from the inside.

He doesn’t like it. Tony hates when Peter’s sad, when he speaks with that tone so small and shattered causing Tony’s heart to sink. Cautiously, he opens the door and pushes it, staying under the doorway. Then he sees Peter, lying on a ball in his bed, and hears his sobs and his ragged breathing, as though he was about to hyperventilate.

Tony enters and walks unhurriedly around the bed, legs folded to almost brushing his chest. There are no signs of untreated wounds, but he has an expression Tony has never seen in him.

There’s dried blood on his bottom lip from pulling it out, perhaps so the crying doesn’t escalate and become uncontrollable. His eyebrows quirk upwards, forming wrinkles on his forehead that surely even hurt, and his cheeks are red and damp from the flood of tears seeping from his eyes - his _eyes_ , staring off at nothing but wide open, as if he’s seeing a spawn no one else can.

The poor kid is shaking from head to toe and whining like a wounded animal.

Tony’s heart rises to his throat.

“Hey…” he says quietly, sitting on the border on the mattress. Peter instantly gets closer and wraps his arms around Tony’s chest. “Hey, _shhh_ , it’s alright, I got you, Pete. I got you.”

Peter’s sobs get louder instantly. Tony brings a hand to his head, whispering every sweet reassurement he can think of, and when Peter’s body jerks, Tony hugs him tighter. Tony’s been here before, in his own flesh. These shivers, these violent waves of grief shaking the body from within. The lack of air, the tears coming out uncontrollably, the look of dread - Tony’s been out there too, and knows how crude it has been.

And yet it feels strange. It’s something he can never get used to, after all. How could someone ever get used to the death of people right in front of them? No matter how many times they have experienced it, it’s still painful. It’s harsh, it’s horrendous. The twentieth whiplash may only sting, since he hardly feels anything anymore. But for Peter it’s the first, the most ravaging one, tearing his throat from so much crying and splitting his soul.

Eventually, while caressing his back and his hair, Tony stops hearing sobs, but keeps holding him close until Peter breathes regularly and the hold on his shirt loosens.

“You were right,” Peter rasps. The same voice that chirped about the trip he has planned with his friend Ned just hours ago, now is desolatingly broken.

Tony feels the need to hug him forever. “About what?”

“About me not being ready yet,” He sighs, sorrowful, still with his face hidden in Tony’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have recruited me.”

“ _What_ —” he blinks, and something ugly taints his core. Has he said that at some point? “Where’s this coming from?”

“Today…” he sniffles, and his shoulders bulk with the motion. “When the building crashed down, I couldn’t—” Tony starts rubbing Peter’s back gently again to encourage him to continue. “A kid, she told me her name, Suzie. And… she had separated from her mum and she was… she was so scared. I promised her we would find her mum and—and I couldn’t—” his voice cracks right there just before he starts crying again. “She was only _eight_...”

It’s always worse when it comes to children. It hurts more. It must be—he doesn’t even want to imagine it. What Tony does know is that he has to take the dark thoughts from Peter’s head and put in new ones that are hopeful. He must not forget, but he also has to march on.

“These things happen.” And it’s true. It doesn’t make it any less tragic, but it’s true. Pepper tries to tell him every time the insecurities hit Tony hard. These things happen whether they want to or not.

Peter shakes his head. “No, it wouldn’t happen if I were stronger.”

“You _are_ strong.”

“It’s not enough,” Peter grumbles, surely more upset at the situation and himself than at Tony. Even if he takes his frustration out on Tony, he wouldn’t mind.

Tony stares at the wall. “Enough for who?”

“For me.” Tony immediately gets a sense of déjà vu, this, this - this _helplessness_ , as if he himself has said those same words not that long ago, when he became Iron Man.

But Peter is not going to go through the same thing. No way.

“You’re learning to be strong.” His fingers untangle a knot between Peter’s curls. “You can’t expect to be the most invincible being on the Earth, can you? Are you a god, now?”

“No… but—”

“Plus, you’ve never chosen the easy way,” he cuts him off.

“‘Cause there’s no easy way.”

“But you already knew that. You knew it, you _know_ it, and yet you’re brave and move on, no matter how tough it might be. ” He separates from Peter enough to lift his chin with a hand. His eyes seem clearer. Still in pain, but clearer. “Do you have any idea how incredible that is?”

Squeezing his lips in a line, Peter glances down and sniffles. The praise catches him off guard.

“You focus too much on the target,” Tony keeps on, and cocks his head. “That happens to me too, sometimes, and it can cloud my judgement. But—”

With the sleeve of his shirt, he wipes away the tears gently from Peter’s face. “Step by step, you’ll end up arriving. If you run, you’ll get tired halfway. ” Flickering his eyes, Peter heaves a sigh and swallows - Tony just wants him to rest. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he smiles a little, more of defeat than of cheer. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For having a breakdown over you.” Peter mumbles without looking at him, and Tony has to contain himself from rolling his eyes.

Of course he would feel bad about crying.

“Kid, I’ve had more breakdowns than I can count. And there wasn’t always someone there to take it out of my head. ” Peter looks up, and smiles with appreciation. Yeah, he will be alright. “You can talk to me about anything, at any time, got it?”

Peter nods, rubbing his eyes to wipe off the last tears, and Tony pats him on the shoulder before standing up from the bed.

“Good, then. Get the heck up from there and take the longest shower you’ve ever got while I order dinner. You feel like Thai?”

Walking to the door, Tony hears Peter chuckling from the bed; Tony knows it’s his favourite. “I do,” Peter replies anyway.

Tony closes the door behind him, and spends a minute waiting for new sobs, but all he hears is the shower running.

* * *

Neither of them mentions it’s been an eternity since the last time they trained together, because Tony has spent a few days away and Peter has already taken care to stay fit by training with Steve and Natasha - they straight strike, instincts taking over thoughts, each movement coming after another without pause.

Peter’s speed and strength give him an edge, but even so he hasn’t been able to knock Tony down to date. However, as the seconds pass and Peter gets used to the rhythm, Tony has a harder time dodging the blows. The difference between the last time they sparred together and now is frigging huge, not only because Peter takes his punches much more easily, but also because he’s forcing him to back off the wall and Peter is cornering him.

Tony can’t help but think this highly visible improvement is because of training with Steve and Natasha, and not him. It’s universal knowledge they’re the experts here, but it was Peter who initially insisted he also wanted Tony as his trainer. But is it really a good idea? Peter has improved a lot after just one weekend without him, and maybe Tony is being paranoid, but Peter insisting that Tony spars with him only makes him think Peter’s doing it out of pity.

“So,” Tony speaks, drawing back to break the exercise a moment. “It worked to spar with Rogers and Natasha, huh?”

“They’re quite tough, yeah,” Peter laughs between pants, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

Tony drops his shoulders. “You know what? Maybe you should train with them instead of me from now on.”

Peter blinks. “What? Why?”

“Well... you’re clearly improving more with them than with me. I think I’m the one falling behind, and I don’t want that to bog you down.”

“What are you...” he trails off, one eyebrow frowned and the other one quirked up. “You’re not… _bogging me down_.” He chuckles under his breath, as if the very idea seemed ridiculous. “Yeah, they’re really good but—I’ve learned a lot with you, too.”

Tony must have looked as amused as he feels, because Peter smiles at him and gets into position to start fighting again.

Tony shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, nevermind.”

So they resume their training gradually until they get back to their earlier rhythm and gasp and sweat but don’t stop; Peter soon finds it hard to hide his joy, a smirk split on his lips as soon as he hogs the brawl and knows he has an actual shot at winning the round.

Tony has to back away again, unable to find a second to strike because Peter won’t let him live, and the languor of his limbs from continued effort is asking him for a time-out. So Tony pauses during a tic; Peter has been training long enough to know that he must take advantage of any signs of weakness or tiredness to give the final blow. Peter leans forward and punches him in the pit of the stomach, making Tony bend over in pain. Then Peter grabs his right arm, pushes his left shoulder back hard, and quickly kicks his leg from behind like a hook.

Tony lands on his back with a thud.

“Yes!” Peter laughs with excitement, raising his arms as he gets off of Tony. “Finally! The student becomes the teacher!”

Still lying on the ground, Tony blinks in shock and confusion as though he still can’t process Peter has managed to take him down. _Yes_ , Peter has greatly improved, he has no doubt now. “Don’t go tasting victory just yet, kid,” he huffs as he gets up from the floor.

Peter doesn’t let his guard down, though.

Tony clears his throat. “All right, once again,” he says, gesturing for Peter to come at him.

Peter brings a determined grin to his face. For now, they will keep working out as if Peter didn’t just win Tony for the first time since Peter set foot on the compound.

Giddiness twists around Tony’s stomach, but he only ignores it.

* * *

As much as he’s tried to ignore his personal doctor’s instructions, Tony has no choice but to stay in the compound. By peer pressure and much to his chagrin, since it’s frustrating to follow all the Avengers’ moves through cameras and comms, miles away in the control room on the second floor of the compound, but it’s either that or staying in bed all day long.

“ _Tony!_ ” Rhodey shouts into his ear. “ _Is it just me or they’re surrounding us?!_ ”

Tony casts a look at Rhodey’s and Steve’s camera. It takes a few seconds to focus and discern that the pale brown spots moving around are a hound of shapeshifters covering all the flanks.

“They are,” he sighs, panic starting to build up. “Listen, they’re coming from Marcus Garvey. I’d recommend attracting them into the main street to get space, but you would get too close to Trinity Church. The best you can do is attack from Marcus Garvey and help Wanda close the portal. If you don’t, they’ll never stop coming.” His gaze returns to Wanda’s camera. “How we doing over there, Witchling?”

“ _Almost got it!_ ” Wanda answers heavily. Although she’s about to close the portal, her power diverts towards the Chitauri every time they try to attack her. “ _But I need someone to handle these things!_ ”

“Cap?”

“ _Still busy, Tony!_ ”

“Where’s the big guy?” Tony exasperates just as Hulk roars, busy in his own business together with Clint and Sam. The situation will get worse if this pace keeps on, and Tony’s heart won’t take it. “Okay, that’s it, I’m going. Next time don’t even try to lock me in—”

“ _I can do it!_ ”

It takes a few beats, but Tony nerves sharpen when he processes who the voice belongs to. “No, not you,” he says, spotting Peter’s screen swift as a blink.

If he has sent drones with cameras to monitor everything happening to each of the Avengers, it’s precisely for this. To help manage the situation as best as they can, _as a team_ ; he’s also installed a camera in the eyes of Peter’s suit as a radical - _maybe even unnecessary_ \- precaution. But he hasn’t done it so Peter can disobey direct orders.

He swears that one of these days he will listen to Pepper and retire for good.

“Peter, what’re you doing?! Stay with Natasha!” he tries again, totally yelling now.

“ _But I’m the only one who can handle them!_ ” Peter shouts back, swinging between buildings with direction to Wanda. “ _And Rhodey and Sam can’t hold out much longer!_ ”

Tony lets out an irritated scoff. “There are too many of them! You’re not gonna make it alone!”

“ _But—! It’s a cinch!_ ” From the rashness of his tone breaking through the comms, Peter’s not even listening. “ _I’ll keep them away so Wanda can close the portal—_ ”

“No, you’re not doing any of that!”

“ _Then we’ll deal with the rest of them together. It’ll work!_ ” he keeps rebutting while Wanda tries to close the portal with a hand and stop the Chitauris with the other.

“If you don’t stop right now—!” Tony chides, heartbeat hitting too quickly.

Uneasiness rises in his ribcage when Peter lands in the middle of the square, attracting the attention of dozens of Chitauris that scream and bounce on him without wasting a second.

If observing from a distance was frustrating, now it’s absolutely unbearable. Little is lacking to start biting his nails, witnessing how Peter beats the Chitauris as agilely as his body allows, drawing nearby cars in - or the remaining pieces - with his spider-webs to get rid of several Chitauri in one blow. He uses different functions of his web-shooters, jabs with his bare fists and springs all over the place in order to dodge claws and fangs that could rip his flesh off.

It’s so distressing that Tony’s not aware he’s holding his breath until Peter gets bitten on the thigh. The muffled scream sends shivers down his spine, paralysing him on the spot and freezing the blood in his veins. The Chitauris leap on Peter, ravenous as sharks to blood, and in the blink of an eye he’s buried in them.

The scene barrels into him at such force he flinches. “Peter! Peter, use your webs, you need to get out of there!”

“ _I can’t!_ ” Peter’s panic blasts through the comms. “ _They’re - they’re not working_ — _ngh!_ ”

Needle-shaped teeth gnaw again into Peter’s thigh, into his arm; claws sink on his side and on his face. A camera of the Spider-suit’s eyes goes black, but Tony hears the sickly sound of the blood sputtering.

“Goddamn it! Someone go help Peter, for fuck’s sake!” he hollers. It doesn’t matter how desperate and anxious he sounds, the other Avengers still shout and struggle on their own while Peter’s been swallowed with no one to avoid it.

The very moment Tony decides to put on his suit and fly over there himself, Wanda closes the portal.

Flaming beams of light dazzle the camera. Tony blinks away until the dots of colours fade away and, for a second, his brain fights to assimilate that the body lying inert in the middle of the shattered street is Peter. Smoke and fire fog the air, and although there are no Chitauris in sight thanks to Wanda, Peter’s completely still.

“Peter?” he tries, low and heavy. His pulse’s over the clouds. “Kid, answer me!”

No response. Fear slams into his body, and before he can ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. for the status of the Spider-suit, Wanda runs towards Peter and kneels beside him, her hands hovering over his head.

“ _Tony? He seems to be all right._ ”

“Seems?”

“ _His right eye is bleeding, but it doesn’t look that bad. See, he’s waking up._ ”

Relief floods through him like a suddenly-subsided storm. Sighing through his nose, he rubs his face until his vision gets smudged. The vibrating chaos in his chest gradually assuages as the thought of Peter being sound and safe engraves itself on the inside of his brain, although the actual miracle here is that he hasn’t yet passed out on the floor from a cardiac arrest.

“ _Tony,_ ” Cap jumps in, more idle now. “ _We still have to deal with these things, we’ll took a bit to—_ ”

“Yes, yes, I know. Can anybody else bring him back?” he says, dread gone but anger deliberately creeping in his head.

“ _Clint and Sam will go with him. We’ll take care of the rest._ ” And Cap cuts off the communication.

Leaning on the desk in the centre of the room, Tony takes a wary breath as he massages his temples to get rid of the headache.

This isn’t fair. Feeling bad for Peter’s wounded integrity when he’s been warned three times in less than a minute isn’t fair. Tony does everything he can to not clip Peter’s wings without giving him the chance to take his first fly. He really does. But when Peter deliberately does the thing Tony tells him not to do and _this_ happens - Tony feels awful, and it’s not fucking fair.

Clenching his jaw, he tries to force his pulse to decelerate, but as soon as Sam and Clint enter the room with Peter a while later, his suit ripped in different zones and covered in dirt and blood, a wave of fury sweeps over him.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he snaps, stalking towards Peter until they’re only a foot apart.

Sam and Clint stir uneasily and stand back. Peter, however, steps forward. “Mr. Stark—”

“No, don’t ‘Mr. Stark’ me!” he points at him with a finger. “I told you not to interfere, how many times? Enough for you to understand it was too dangerous and somebody else would deal with it. Can you tell me why I bother? Why do I bother with warning you while you ignore me and do as you please? Did you think you could deal with it all alone? That you could take them down on your own only with your stubbornness?”

“I was about to do it—I was—”

“You almost got killed!” he barks, and Peter closes his mouth shut. “You could’ve lost your fucking eye!”

“Tony—” Clint murmurs.

“Keep out of this,” Tony says curtly, and he takes a moment to draw in a long, shaky breath before wrenching his eyes from Peter and turning around. “You’re going to the infirmary, and as soon as they treat you, you’re getting your things and you’re going home.”

“But—but I just got here!” Peter tumbles out. “Please, I know I messed up, but I can do better—”

“No, you can’t,” Tony snarls, whipping his head around to glower at him with a rage he hasn’t felt in a long time. “You’re still light-years away from doing anything.” He looks away again, gripping the edge of the desk as he feels like he’s having a fit. “So it’ll be better for you to go home before you mess up again. Right now you’re useless.”

“Tony!”

Right before he has the chance to react at Sam’s voice, Tony realises he’s crossed the line.

Peter doesn’t even face him anymore. Looking at his feet, he presses the cloth against his bleeding eye and tenses his lips like he’s holding back the tears. A surge of guilt coils inside Tony’s chest as Sam throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders to help him walk.

“C’mon, bud,” Sam mutters as he takes Peter to the infirmary, but not without first shooting Tony a reproachful glance.

In the silence that forms just after, Clint lets out a deep sigh and folds his arms. Tony can see his gaze digging into his temple.

“I never tell my kids they’re useless,” Clint says, taking a few steps closer. “No matter the situation.”

“He’s not—” Tony spats the words out. _He’s not my kid_ , he wanted to say, but Tony knows he is somehow and, anyway, he can’t fool Clint.

“I know you’re fond of him, and that you only want him to be safe, but you can’t protect him from everything _all the time_. You know that, don’t you?”

Tony sighs, leaning against the desk and squeezing his fingers against his eyes. “Let’s say I’m not handling that part very well.”

“It’s part of his growth,” he says, and flashes a tiny, cheeky smile. “Or you’re gonna tell me you never disobeyed your father and you never put yourself in danger?”

“This is different,” Tony mutters, looking out the window.

“No, it’s not. It’s just that you’re terrified,” Clints corrects him, and Tony turns to refute him. “Tony, you’re shaking,” he points out, and Tony has to frown because, very reluctantly, he really is shaking. “The kid just wants to be a part of the team,” Clint keeps on. “What’s more important, he wants to be like you.”

“That’s the problem,” Tony bursts out, extending his hands. “I don’t want him to be like me. I don’t want _this_ for him.”

“I think it’s too late for that.”

It’s said in a tone so teasing and true that Tony’s speechless - Peter only wants to help out and feel like a part of the Avengers, and it’s _true_ , Tony can’t protect him from everything around the clock. That’s what has him like this.

“You need to know he could’ve beaten the holy shit out of them,” Clints adds, and walks out the control room leaving Tony with a bittersweet feeling in his stomach.

It’s a mixed feeling, and Tony doesn’t know how to handle it. They’ve been over the same thing several times before, but now it’s increasingly difficult to make Peter stay still.

When Tony arrives at the infirmary, Peter is sitting on the gurney with his back to the door, and Sam still has an arm around his shoulders reassuringly, muttering something Tony can’t hear. But as soon as the doors automatically open before him, Sam falls silent and turns to him. He doesn’t shy away from Peter, and for some reason Tony feels out of place, like a misfit screw.

He exhales deeply. “Peter, listen, you know you get under my skin sometimes. But I didn’t want to say that.”

“Ohhh, you’re feeling bad about it,” Sam quips with a mocking grin.

“ _What?_ ” Tony frowns, impulsively shaking his head. “No, I’m not—”

“Aw, how _adorable_ is that?” Sam shakes Peter with his arm, and Tony swears he can see a corner of Peter’s lips rising.

Tony sighs, completely exhausted. “I’m not in the mood right now for your bullshit. So you better—”

“A’right, man, a’right, I get it…” Sam rises from the gurney with his hands up.

“...you better leave and stop messing around.”

“You’re having a father-and-son talk, got it,” he smirks. Before going out the door, he winks at Peter, who smiles a little before ducking his head again.

“I’m not—” Tony tries to contradict him, but Sam doesn’t even look back as he walks away.

Just a few days ago these two were at each other’s throats, since when do they get along so well?

Meanwhile, Peter keeps staring at the floor in complete silence and if Tony already feels like walking on eggshells, it only makes it worse.

“Listen,” he sighs, ambling until he sits down on a stool in front of Peter. “I’m not good at dealing with this, I know that, you know that. And you also know I didn’t want to say that.”

There is no response. If not because the kid has reacted to Sam’s inconvenient comments, Tony would say he was asleep with his eyes open. He doesn’t seem sad, though. Nor hurt. Tony already knows what Peter looks like when he’s sad, scared, and hurt. And his expression now doesn’t resemble any of those. He seems exhausted, on the contrary. With black circles under his empty eyes, and the slight frown and the tension at the corners of his lips, he seems to be beside himself.

When Tony is about to insist, he finally gets an answer.

Peter clears his throat. “Yes, yes you did,” he croaks, his calm tone not matching the little frown in his brow. “You’ve always thought so.”

“No. Of course not,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Did you think I would let you be an Avenger if I thought you’re useless? It’s a very privileged position, don’t underestimate me,” he smirks, but Peter still has that miserable face on.

“I said that because…” Tony resumes. “You can do nothing right now. The situation is complicated, and you’re hurt. You can’t go out there and keep pushing it. I know you’ve got potential, but you’re only sixteen.”

“Seventeen,” Peter grumbles, fingers twitching between the folds of the cloth against his eye.

“Too young. You have your whole life ahead, and there’s many people who care about you. I tell you to stay away because we have more experience and less to lose. It sounds like… the sort of thing you teenagers are told, but—it’s for your own good. Always.”

“I know, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, sounding tired more than resigned. “It’s just—sometimes I feel like no one sees me.”

Tony blinks. “What? How’s that, no one sees you?”

“I jump out there every day and I save many people, I’m risking my life constantly, and I’m still—” He hesitates, hands clenched into fists.

“Still?” he presses.

Peter swallows, working up the most upset expression Tony’s ever seen on him, and mutters weakly, “I’m... still under your shadow.”

Oh. Is - Is that it? Is he envious of the Avengers’ glory, of _his_ glory? Peter himself has previously told him he didn’t need to be an Avenger, that all he wanted was to fight for the little neighbour at the moment. Has he changed his mind? That’s why he challenges him more often? No, Peter’s not like that. He wouldn’t get a tantrum just because he doesn’t get enough attention.

“But you’re not doing this for fame,” Tony says, half affirming, half asking.

“No, of course not!” Peter snaps, finally raising his head. “But it’s frustrating! I’m working really hard, going on missions ever more dangerous...” he turns his head away again. “But it doesn’t even matter,” the tingle of helplessness slipping itches. “I’m always the little kid who everyone has to look after, and who needs to go home earlier. I’m not a kid, Mr. Stark. A normal teenager spends their afternoon playing video games, watching series or hanging out with their friends. They don’t go after arm traders in the middle of the night or get buried by a building, or crush a plane into a beach by themselves...”

Tony stutters. “What - What’d you just say about a building?”

“Listen to me!” Peter yells. That’s when Tony notices the hoarseness in his voice. “I’m not a kid,” he repeats, with even more frustration. “I have more experience and strength than many heroes out there. But I feel like no matter what I do or how much time passes, I’ll always be the Spiderling you always have to keep an eye on.”

Tony opens his mouth to refute, but closes it again realising Peter’s partly right. Maybe he’s overprotecting him. Maybe.

Peter sighs. “I know you only want the best for me, but you’ve not stopped to think what _I_ want.” He swallows. “I want to save people, I want to make the world less scary, I want to become the hero worthy of this suit. But you’re not _letting me_.”

He forces his gaze back to Tony. “Whatever the situation, whatever the person, you always say to me, _stay back, Peter, you can’t take him down, Peter, don’t you come, Peter, you’re not ready, Peter_. And when will I be? When will I be ready if you don’t even let me try. What’s the point of sparring with you if I can’t put it into practice? I wait and train and wait and listen, but I’m tired of not seeing any progress!”

“But you _are_ still a kid.”

Peter makes that upset expression again. “That’s what you said when you first met me, and I’m seventeen now. When I turn thirty, will I still be a kid?”

Tony holds his gaze, then ducks his head, trying to put his thoughts in order. It’s true that Peter needs to get off his training wheels, but Tony has locked him up in his weaker version, in the one Tony met almost two years ago. And he’s not realised Peter’s gotten better and has grown up because Tony never imagined it would come anyways, as ridiculous as it sounds. But the kid is right. Eventually, he has to let Peter be, even if he crashes. Just as Clint has said, it’s part of his life as it’s been in Tony’s and in everyone else’s.

And it won’t be different for Peter, as much as Tony wants the contrary.

“Will I still be a kid?” Peter presses, and Tony focuses his gaze on Peter’s feet.

When Tony was first designing that suit, he chose spandex as the most adequate cloth for Peter’s flexibility in swinging and fighting hand-to-hand. Besides, it’s breathable and comfortable, thick enough for the cold and thin enough for the hot. But now that he stops to watch, it also helps to see how his muscles have matured after so much training, missions and hardships. From the calfs, abs, pecs and arms, until his neck, Peter’s body has grown bigger. He was already brawny when Tony recruited him almost two years ago, but now he’s more robust, without being a heavyset man like Steve.

And it’s because of the spandex that Tony sees Peter's chest lifting and falling regularly despite the wounds and fatigue that his body accumulates.

Peter’s hand tenses a fraction, perhaps as a reflection at being checked out, and his fit wrings the red-damped cloth against one side of his face. It pours off a droplet of cleared blood that courses down between his fingers and across the back of his hand, meandering through his tensed tendons before falling. Tendons very defined and resistant, strengthened hit by hit.

Like the hit that has busted the edge of his mouth, tensed in a straight line. He’s tried to wipe it out since it’s smeared off to the upper lip, and it blends with the blood dripping from one of his nostrils, clotted for a while now. He’s also bleeding from a minor scratch on his cheek and from another on his eyebrow. His face is a mess, as well as his hair, all mussed and soak with sweat, a few curls rebelliously falling over his forehead.

Then Tony’s eyes land on his gaze, and Tony’s breath halts.

Peter frowns, not enough to back off but enough to mark some wrinkles on his brow. And his eyes observe him, through his head and into his soul, with a sheen of determination so overwhelmingly mature and inspirational he doesn’t even look like himself.

Any other boy his age would lay in bed without being able to speak from the pain and the fear of losing the eye. But Peter has ranted about this issue that has been racking his head for the longest time with a strength that has Tony speechless.

It’s not the typical teenager tantrum. The kid’s embittered because he wants to grow up and Tony has him locked in a bullet-proof cage. And now Peter’s screaming through his eyes, like saying no matter how many times he’s hit, he’ll always get back up. Like he could fight the entire world and _win_. With perseverance, willpower, patience, with this flair of his to win everyone’s heart.

And Tony’s own heart misses a beat. A beat too rough and warm, like realising asudden of a hidden truth that has been there the entire time. He’s looked outside, and he has seen that kid in a sweatsuit, bouncing around, while what Tony has in front of him is the first version of a man.

And now he cannot refute the shrewdness Peter has come to, because he’s not fifteen anymore. Now Tony sees him as an equal.

Tony _sees_ him, for the very first time.

And he stares back at Peter, at how he endures the pain in his eye without a flinch and how he maintains a serious expression despite the interminable silence. It’s been there the whole time, and Tony just noticed. He scoffs.

Peter’s expression breaks. “What—What are you laughing at? What’s so funny about me?!”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s not you, it’s just—” He rubs his face, still with a smile on his face, and shakes his head.

Both Clint and he were wrong—Peter doesn’t want to be like him anymore. Peter just wants to be himself. And it’s about time.

“You’re right,” Tony sighs, getting up from the chair. “I should take you seriously. I guess… I guess I don’t get used to seeing you out there, knowing something could go wrong.”

Peter seems to think about it and ducks his head to one side, agreeing in the statement and relaxing his expression.

Tony raises his brow. “I’m just asking you to listen to me if I tell you to _really_ keep out of it.”

“Okay. Yeah,” Peter chuckles, out of breath, a product of pain, blood loss and tiredness.

“I’m getting someone to look at that.” Tony pats him gently on the back, careful not to brush any wounds, and goes to the door.

“Mr. Stark—” Peter says, and Tony stops under the doorway. “Can I stay?” he asks, voice and expression now shy.

Tony chuckles. “All right, but you’re still grounded.”

Peter does not protest - he actually smiles, and that gives Tony a little breathing room through the intense churn in his chest loosening up. It’s something so intense and hot that seems like boiling, like increasing heat from minimum to maximum suddenly.

Peter is still a kid, that’s as true as a plague of aliens has attempted to conquer their way through the city. But Peter has also been through _so much_ , so much physical and mental pain, so many tests along his short way, that Tony cannot keep him huddled under his wing forever, and sooner or later Peter will have to jump out of the nest whether or not Tony wants to.

_Scary_ , his inner voice croaks as the idea takes hold and scoots over the other thoughts, coupling until it leaves a mark.

This… _young man_ is still his Peter, except in part he’s not. Tony finds it inalienably bittersweet; will the world be kind enough for his recently-begun journey, and will Tony be there, by Peter’s side, in case the world doesn’t happen to be _that_ kind; or will Peter fend for himself, not needing him anymore despite all they’ve been through, _together_?

Tony returns to the control room - whether Peter needs him or not in the future, whether Peter decides to stay in his life or to get out, Tony shall ensure, stars above, to be there in some form or another.

* * *

Even when he shouldn’t worry, he worries.

It’s not a big deal, but he can’t help it. It’s not the first time that Peter goes to a prom, but Peter’s nerves are unavoidable and contagious, and Tony doesn’t even hesitate when he peeks into Peter’s room just to check on him and make sure he has everything under control.

Hands in his pockets, Peter stares at himself in the full-length mirror, studying the outfit from different perspectives. He twists his face now and then, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced, the tie is not quite on and the collar of the shirt sticks out too high.

Still, he looks like a fine gentleman. Tony took him to his trusted tailor to make him a tuxedo, the vibrant maroon colour giving it an overpriced look Peter didn’t like at first. Tony bought it anyways, along with a shirt and matching shoes. All to Tony’s account, of course. Not _but’s_.

“Look at you…” he drawls, catching Peter’s attention.

He startles, but as soon as he sees Tony entering, he drops his guard. “Yeah,” he chuckles midly, turning back to the mirror. “I’ve really never worn a tailored suit.”

“It looks great,” Tony walks closer as Peter tightens his grip on his tie, fiddling with the knot even when it’s neatly tied up. “Why so nervous?”

Peter forces a smile onto his face. “I don’t… I don’t know how to dance well, I guess.”

“Do you wanna practise a bit before leaving?” Tony asks, his tone taking on a reassuring tilt that rises Peter’s eyebrows. “Not that I’m a professional, but I still got moves.”

Peter’s eyelashes flutter, his gaze losing in the mirror a second before breathing out a chuckle and turning around. “Yeah, I guess there’s still time to take some lessons.”

While guiding Peter’s hand to his waist. “There. Firm grasp, but not too strong. Keep a slow pace at first and speed up after a while if you feel safer.”

And he begins to swing, bringing Peter into the movement. They’re slow and silent for the next few minutes, and Peter’s gaze locks in the sway of their feet, and his palm is sweaty. But Tony also notes Peter has dressed like a marquess, has worn his best perfume, has stylised his hair in a way that looks formal but a few curls fall freely over his forehead - he’s dancing pretty good as well, so there is no doubt everything will be okay.

There’s no way he will screw up; Peter is so devoted to this party, to show his date a good time, that Tony doesn’t doubt the girl, boy or whoever Peter takes to the dance is going to have a great night.

“Man, I’m gonna look so lame,” Peter whines, mortified, when his shiny shoe stumbles into Tony’s.

“No, no, it’s good!” Tony says, pushing him again into their waltz. Peter pouts at odds. “You’re actually good,” he turns them around in a swift movement, and Peter widens his eyes at the sudden change.

He lets Tony guide him, anyway, and it might be the reassuring smile Tony gives him, the word of someone who knows better, _much better_ , and who says it wholeheartedly, or maybe it’s just the low lights of the halogens giving the room an intimate and cozy ambience, but Peter relaxes at last and turns the pout of self-pity into an entertained one.

Then his body catches up with Tony’s rhythm, eventually, legs shifting wherever Tony’s go, the grip of his hand with the gentleness just right, firm but not strong, chest swollen with a confidence that changes his aura. He doesn’t stop smiling, though, none of them does, and the characteristic sheen of Peter’s eyes refulges when the rays of sweet light hug him, his curls, the curves of his shoulders, wider than they used to be.

At some point Peter takes the lead and Tony is humming a soothing melody to the step of their waltz. They make their bodies roam all over their improvised ballroom, and they’re probably spinning with too much flourishes, but Tony knows Peter doesn’t care, by all means - he’s dancing way better than he believes and he’s laughing, _like a star_ , his shoes slide across the floor, _a dazzling star_ , and Tony can see Peter taking the reins of anything else, of _everything_ , and taking it graciously and tenderly to the end of the universe.

With each second, with each theatrical movement Tony takes out of nowhere to the sound of an imaginary melody, Peter beams more amused, sniggering until the pace changes and they’re just waddling from side to side.

Peter giggles. “What—What kind of dance is this?”

“The ‘you’re too nervous with no reason cause you’re gonna nail it so you need to chill out’ style. It’s brand new.” Tony speaks softly, because all these fooleries seem to work, the self-confidence is back on the track and Peter is at ease.

Peter _radiates_ , they dance around like penguins until the clock strikes, and Tony stops worrying.

* * *

Tony doesn’t ask F.R.I.D.A.Y to notify him when Peter arrives at the compound. It doesn’t even cross his mind, since he’s receiving him in the lobby. And it’s not because of the excitement, not at all. It’s just that he has finished the Mark L, the most equipped and complicated suit he has built to date, and Peter’s _keen_ on his suits.

But when he goes to look for his housing unit at the laboratory, Peter’s already there, continuing with this project he hasn’t stopped talking about since he started it.

Leaning against the doorframe, Tony crosses his arms. Peter’s bag rests on one side of the threshold, still unpacked; he must have tossed it aside, not even remembering to let Tony know he was already home, and headed straight to the worktable.

And Peter’s getting on so well it looks like the laboratory is made only for him. He speaks to himself from time to time, and he engages in conversation with F.R.I.D.A.Y. while moving around. Anyone watching would think he’s just one more young nerd, supposed to work in Stark Industries if anything - many people has told him, in fact, that Peter is still too green, that _this_ right here - studying for school, working as his intern and being an Avenger -, is not going to gel. That Peter is naïve and lenient, and all that has no place in this world.

But that’s not what Tony sees - he sees intellect, eagerness, humility. He sees deep kindness, something a lot of people lack nowadays. He sees this budding hero giving his best every day, patiently learning from his mistakes and maturing little by little without losing that hope of his - he sees Peter blooming into this great form Tony’s so proud of, that he cannot help but put a dopey smile on his face.

He can’t wait for Peter to finish this project, to celebrate that it works and embrace it in their daily lives, and for repeating the process as many times as possible. Can’t wait to see him out there again, flying between buildings and grazing the sky with his finger. And to think he couldn’t have done better, that he couldn’t be stronger and braver.

But he can. Of course he can. Peter can do anything he sets his mind on because he’s _Peter_ , the boy who got bitten by a spider, got powers, made his own web-shooters, and spent ages on the streets fighting crime for six months without telling absolutely nobody.

Peter can sense danger incoming, take hits with a hand that would kill a grown up man, regenerate his wounds in a jiffy, build a functioning computer from scratch. All without Tony’s help; if Peter said he found a way to give him the Moon for his birthday, Tony would believe him. Tony only wanted him to be better, after all, and Peter has succeeded beyond expectation.

And brilliantly so.

That’s why Tony just watches, because now he has the heart in the right place and knows that whatever happens, Peter will be fine.

Then Peter stops working for a second, taking notice of Tony’s presence, twists around and, the instant he sees Tony, he _beams_ ; he beams under Tony’s fond look like they haven’t seen each other just last week, and Tony feels, entering the room and welcoming Peter home, that he just grabbed a star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've come this far, congrats and thank you! 
> 
> Lori drew this [ADORABLE](https://irondadbigbang.tumblr.com/post/616656688125247488/starbound-by-rashiisa-art-by-kenobleeaaarrrgghh) piece of Peter with the Iron Man suit on for the Big Bang promotion and I'm still tearing up.
> 
> Also, I pretended Tony never made the Iron Spider during Homecoming, but long after, when he's spent months with Peter and wants to protect him at all costs.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/rashiisa/status/1271830018730209280?s=20); [Tumblr](https://rashiisa.tumblr.com/post/620823336095744000/starbound-part-12)


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some old wounds may be opened, but I hope you like it anyways!

Letting out an unsteady sigh, and heart beating at a hundred an hour, Tony sits in a chair in the centre of his room, with the back of the chair against his chest. He rests his arms on top, drumming his fingers on the fabric of his jacket. He has delayed this moment long enough for him to panic. Procrastinating has been worse, he just realises, because now he doesn’t even know where to begin. In what tone should he approach the matter, should he be in a good mood, banter about the situation? He feels unable to banter about anything right now, when the destiny of the universe will be decided tomorrow, as soon as it dawns.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., start recording,” he says, and his voice echoes between the four walls as emphasising how empty it is. 

The Mark III helmet on his bed, in front of him, blips twice and a blueish light shines out of one eye. He’ll have to record another message for Pepper, Morgan and his closest friends afterward. He could’ve done it all at once, but he knows he will need much more time for Peter only. Time to explain what he’s done over the last five years and what he’s going to do in a few more hours. Time to tell Peter all he didn’t have the opportunity to tell.

Tony needs time, and now that’s the least he’s got.

“All right,” he speaks aloud, cursing internally for letting the stammer of his heart make his voice quiver. “Hi there, kid.” He clears his throat and stares straight in the eyes of the helmet as if they were Peter’s, although he doesn’t know whether that’s good or not. He just imagines Peter with red-crying eyes, and his soul aches. “If you’re watching this, that means it worked.”

He tries to smile. _Not for me_ , _though_ , he’s about to joke to lift the spirits, but it would end up destroying Peter, and Tony’s doing this to get just the opposite.

He looks away. “Do you remember the night when... we were working on an upgrade for the sonic cannon and we were so tired we started babbling nonsense and thinking of far-fetched projects? Like the Laser Shields and the Healing Pods?” He cannot avoid an edge of his lips from rising, although his chest hurts at the thought that maybe they won’t have the chance to live those nights again.

“Do you remember one of those projects was to build a travel machine, and I said that was sci-fi bullshit?” he goes on, and glances at the helmet. “I actually did it.” He imagines Peter with his eyes wide and gasping, _No shit!_ “Yes, I did it. Well— _we_ did it. Between Bruce, Scott and me. And… all the Avengers’ help, actually. And it’s—incredible. I mean, I’ve made a lot of things, I’ve invented a bunch of devices, but believe me when I say I never imagined I’d ever build a travel machine. I’m not explaining how it works because I could stay here for hours, and someone will tell you anyways,” he leans over the chair.

The kid would go green of envy and excitement at the same time. He adored these things.

“I think it could be dangerous, though,” he pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I need to make sure someone destroys it or... has it in a safe place in case it’s needed in the future, which I hope not, because it’s been nuts. It’s, it’s—god, kid, I wish you could see it. I wish you _can_ see it. That’s what this recording is for.”

A few beats passes, in which Tony looks away and rubs his incipient beard with his thumb. It’s never been easy to share his feelings—he’s not transparent like Peter, or loving to a fault like Pepper, or forgiving like Rhodey, or patient like Happy. He sucks at these things, and if he were in a different situation - _any other_ , Tony certainly could not do this.

But he can’t leave Peter behind just like that.

“This thing I’m doing is… very hard for me, actually. But I wanted to make a few things clear in case I’m not here when this is all over.”

Imagining his own death is not amusing _at all_ , but what is crushing him is to think of his loved ones reacting to that death. Of how Peter will suffer for days and feel alone and unprotected—how he will blame himself, because it’s what he always does, and how he will have to face the world without his mentor.

Tony coughs to get rid of the lump forming in his throat.

“I know… I may not live to see our victory,” his voice comes out lightly strangled. Damn. “After the Snap and the destruction of the gems, we… we knew there was no way of getting you all back. And we gave in. I definitely retired and focused on my family. I’ve lived just the way I’ve always wanted these five years, with no worries. I’ve spent with Pepper the time she deserved. We had Morgan and I’ve loved her to the moon and back since she was born. But I was… _afraid_ something would happen to her or that… I would lose her just like I lost you, kid. And that means… I never forgot. God, how could I?” he whispers, he doesn’t know for himself or for the recording.

Of course he didn’t forget. It’s been impossible to forget. He tried with all his might, but pulled the rug when he woke up startled one night and Pepper hugged him while she cried.

It’s been _awful_.

Rubbing his face, he tries to keep track of the monologue. “Sometimes I had nightmares. I wondered if I couldn’t really do something, but I always ended up giving in. Because it was easier. It hurt too much, to think you wouldn’t have the future Morgan will have, and that everything was my fault, that I couldn’t do anything when you were right in front of me.”

And of course he didn’t forget the image of Peter fading in front of him. _No_ , he had thought as Peter said he wasn’t feeling good, _not him, please_. He didn’t know who he was begging, Thanos, some god, the entire universe. But he could only think he had not yet taught Peter all he wished to teach him, that he had not loved him as he deserved.

But they had snatched him from his arms in a matter of seconds, leaving no trace, and Tony had never felt so desolate, furious and empty at the same time. And alone. The ride back home had been appalling. All that silence, that boredom he could only endure thanks to Nebula. The trip back he should’ve done with Peter had killed him. And then he had a worse time coming back without him, so bad that the first thing he said to Steve as soon as he landed was _I lost the kid…_ , in a voice so weak and cracked it made everything become much more real and insufferable.

Silent days, sleepless nights, a cry that remained within him but he never dared to free. He doubted even if he would move on.

Thank God he had Pepper by his side.

Tony moves on the chair and tries to mimic Peter’s little voice. “Now Mr. Stark, why did you get off your ass when you had given up and lost all hope and you were more or less at ease with your new life?”

He remains silent for a few seconds, looking at the floor and looking for the words to phrase it delicately and clearly. He looks straight at the helmet.

“It was you, kid,” he says in a severe but soft tone, ending the phrase with a smile. “Steve and the guys came to my house saying… there might be a way. It seemed absurd and off the cuff, but viable. And I’m gonna make it clear, I completely refused. I mean, I had already convinced myself there was no way back. I had settled in a cabin in the outskirts and started a family I adored. It was like re-live a wound, and besides—I was terrified of losing what I already had, you know? I wouldn’t bear it. Not again.”

That would’ve ended up killing him, he’s sure of it. But—

“But then I thought about you. And that I was still… even after all that time, I was heartbroken. I thought about… your geekiness and your endless excitement, and the headaches you gave me when you were still here, and I said… god, I _really_ miss him...”

And now that he voices it, his throat rasps and his stomach churns. But if he hasn’t cried in all these years, he won’t do it now, much less in a message that Peter will have to see.

“I thought if there was a probability, however impossible it were, of bringing you all back, of bringing _you_ back, I had to try.” He squares up, his chest filling with the hope he felt back then. “I guess that was the kick-off to get on with it.”

It’s been exhausting, chaotic days, and also the first time in a long while that all the Avengers are together, working with the same aim and with the same determination to carry it out, whatever it takes.

“I’m doing this because… I’m sure you’ll be the one the most… confused and scared.” He raises his hands in the air. “No offense. I don’t mean to treat you like a baby, I never did. It’s just… you’re so young… trusting and kind to everyone. I just wanted to protect you, okay? And everything I did was to get you away from any danger.” He sighs as if he’s hearing Peter answer. “I know, I know. You’re incredibly strong and agile and you’ve been a hero for years now but—it’s not like that for me. I’ve always been afraid of you, and of how fast you grew up, and of how you were more independent over time. I still am, actually. And I am even more now that I know I may not be there for you.”

It shatters his heart, indeed. Only the thought of Peter lost and confused, or even hurt gives him a horrible giddiness.

“But I know you. I’ve seen you evolve, and I’ve been repeating myself the same these… last hours. That you’re, I guess… the closest to a son, don’t you think?” 

A son. The lump in his throat tightens. No, he can’t falter right now. It’s comforting to release all this aloud, aware that someone will listen to it, but no. Not now.

He exhales, taking some seconds to calm down, and he looks right at the lens, voice and smile both soft.

“You will be fine,” he states, more assured than ever. “You will be fine, kid,” he repeats, to convince himself more than Peter. “Even if you think everything around you is falling down, that there’s no solution, that you’re completely alone... you will be fine. I see all that potential in you, and how much you’re working to get it out. And I know you’ll be great.”

Gosh, he’s about to cry. He’s usually very easygoing in these situations, but recording this message as though he’s dying in a minute is—what hurts most about all this is he won’t see Peter growing and becoming the hero he has dreamed of.

“Don’t—Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, you hear me?” Now he sounds angry. With the universe, with himself, who knows, but he has to make Peter clear how wonderful he is. “You’re brave, smart, hard-working and worthy of being Spider-Man. Word of hero.”

He takes a breath and careens his head to the side, frowning. Why is he collapsing like this, now, he doesn’t know. Because the end is coming, but he doesn’t want it to. He doesn’t want this to be the last thing he tells the kid, he doesn’t want it to end here. Peter’s still got the entire world to see, and Tony wants to be there to witness it.

“You got a long, _long_ way ahead, Pete,” he says, without wanting to look straight ahead. “For the worse and for the better. So don’t be afraid to ask for help. I’m speaking from experience. If it were not for Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, and… all the Avengers and a lot of people more… I wouldn’t be here, and of course I wouldn’t be who I am today.” Then he deigns to look at the helmet. He’s doing this for Peter and he will finish it with the little courage he’s left. “You’re a superhero, but you’re also human, and I know it can be frustrating, but sometimes you will lose and fail and disappoint many people. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

He’s been there and has suffered the unspeakable, and he’s also suffering as ever now. He lets the pain settle for a few seconds before continuing.

“It’s not easy, and it is a heavy burden. That’s why I’m telling you not to pressure yourself too much, okay? Take a break, spend time with your friends, get a partner, mess it up, have fun. Be a kid. No one will judge you for it, Pete. I never did, anyways.”

Tony’s sure Peter won’t have been able to bear it by now and will be crying his eyeballs out in front of the message. And Tony’s so sorry. He’s so very sorry he can’t be there to hug him and comfort him he has to sigh deeply again.

“Okay, you can stop crying now,” he adds mockingly, getting up from the chair. “Sorry for giving you a lecture, but I can’t leave you with nothing, don’t you think?”

He steps toward the helmet to turn it off with his own hands. It’s as if he was, at long last, saying goodbye. And he doesn’t recall being so emotional to Peter before. Well, except for the night Peter took him out of his room almost forcefully and showed him the sky of stars that—

Oh.

The thought dawning on him, Tony raises a hand. “By the way, now I like stars. And… do you know why? Because… this will sound very corny so you better record it in your brain.”

He gives himself time to come up with the best way to describe what he feels, something that stays burned in Peter’s mind as long as Peter needs him.

“Because... if you ever feel down and need something to rely on, you’ll just have to find my star in the sky, and you’ll know I’m watching over you.”

He feels the sheer fondness between them as he speaks, the shared memory so dear to Tony he expects it to be just as important to Peter.

“I do like the stars,” he says with delight, staring adoringly at the eye of the helmet, and wishes Peter feels it through the message. 

Tony’s got so much love from Peter, unconditionally, _always_. So if Peter receives even a tiny part of all that love back, Tony will be content.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Tony says just as soft, and he knows how they were meant to run into each other sooner or later, how Peter was the pillar he needed to hold the heavy roof above him. He knows right there, right then, how much Peter truy means to him. “Goodbye, Pete.”

Fingers hovering on the side buttons of the helmet and heart down the line, he lets out a light, last breath.

“I love you,” he smiles, and Tony swears on the universe he has never said something truer in his life.

And just like that, he turns off the recording. He maintains the same posture for a moment, holding his breath until his lungs burn. Then, he takes a breath as he steps back, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

_“Are you fine, sir?”_

“Yes, F.R.I.D.A.Y., I’m _totally_ fine,” he replies, although she won’t catch the irony. 

The pain mitigates, however, since he’s already released everything he had to release, and it’s actually freeing. The ache is still there, but if he’s got the precious opportunity to see Peter as soon as he returns, Tony will embrace him with all his might regardless of the situation.

Raising his head, he realises how fatigued he is, and the day’s not even over. He opens his eyes, stares at the ceiling painted with constellations, and meets the TONY STARK orb of light among all the others.

He smiles.

“I’m totally fine,” he repeats, but now he really means it.

The star seems to twinkle and, at long last, Tony feels he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the scene I wanted to happen in Far From Home, but as I never get what I want, I needed to get this off my chest or otherwise my heart wouldn't let me live. In my head was sadder bc I'll never get over Tony Stark, but if you are wondering, I cried three times while writing this.
> 
> And that's all! Thank you for sticking up with this fic. If you want to share this around or its BEAUTIFUL art, here are the links!
> 
> [Fic](https://rashiisa.tumblr.com/post/621447562724081664/starbound-part-22) || [Art](https://rashiisa.tumblr.com/post/620826410781671424/starbound-part-12)


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